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Chapter Text

Faramir had hoped that by taking up his authority within three days of their victory, he would not miss the first detailed report from the Black Gate. His haste proved unnecessary: he was halfway through his second day as Steward before the hoped-for message arrived. He first noticed a stirring in the streets; then a runner came to tell him that several riders had come from Cair Andros, and he was wanted in the courtyard.

The Steward immediately set aside the reports he had been reading and strode down to the Court of the Fountain. The messengers, mostly young Rohirrim, all joyful, waited in the clear, slender shadow of the dead White Tree.

The only dark-haired man in the group stepped forward and saluted. “My Lord Steward, the Shadow is departed!”

“Anborn!” Faramir cried, embracing the man. “What of the others? And the King?”

“All alive, Captain; he placed the more heavily-armored men in front. King Elessar himself is unhurt, but he has had little rest between commanding the army and caring for the wounded. He gave me this letter for you.”

“Thank you,” said Faramir, taking the little roll of paper eagerly. Blinking back tears of relieved joy, he turned to the small crowd that had gathered. “Men of Gondor, rejoice! We are free indeed, and our King lives.”

The joyful songs of four days earlier were already rising again from the lower circles, for the riders had announced their message to all as they rode up through the City.

“Thandil,” he whispered to his esquire, “Tell the attendants to send food, drink, and eight seats to the Hall of Kings for the men who have brought us tidings of our King’s victory.” As the young man hurried off, he turned to the messengers. “Welcome to the Citadel, men of Rohan and ranger of Ithilien. Come; we will find you food and drink, and you may tell me all that you have seen.”

After the messengers had eaten and gone to rest, Faramir returned to his desk, broke the seal on the King’s letter, and read.

26 Gwaeron, Year 3019

Dagorlad

Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur,

To Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,

Or Húrin his depute,

Greetings.

Frodo’s mission was successful: the Shadow is departed forever. As it went, the Black Gate crumbled; claimed victory over the land, but no time to ride throughout. Suspect the Dark Tower or Mount Doom also fell. All orcs and trolls fled, as did most enemy Men, but we have a few prisoners of Rhûn and Harad. We are camped in Dagorlad, plan to return to Ithilien.

As to your friends: Imrahil, Mithrandir, and your lieutenant Mablung are unscathed. Rangers saved us from an ambush in Ithilien, did not place them in front line of battle, all survived. A troll struck down guard Beregond, but he heals well—Master Peregrin saved him and was nearly crushed. I am tending the Hobbits myself—Frodo and Samwise especially are in critical condition. Gandalf rescued them with Eagles. Please invite Merry to meet us when we are settled. I will invite him—forgive my slow mind, we have few healers—

I have attached a list of the supplies we will need. You know the needs of your City and those quartered in it, and your own store, far better than I do, so I leave the allocation of supplies to your best judgement. Send what you can spare to Cair Andros: we plan to move in that direction tomorrow, as swiftly as our wounded will allow.

How has Elfhelm’s venture in Anorien?

May Gondor heal and flourish! I hope you are healing as well.

Faramir leaned back in his chair, staring at one line in particular with a disbelieving smile. He was hardly surprised to see their victory in ink; had he not felt it in his heart from the first tremulous moment? And had not Anborn, who had left him moments ago, seen it with his own eyes? No, it was the middle of the passage about supplies that touched him. He lifted the letter to the light as if the words might change, but they remained as black as ever:

I leave the allocation of supplies to your best judgement.

Faramir would enjoy working under this man. He returned to the reports with new interest.

Chapter Text

“And now you may sleep in peace, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly. “We are settled for the night.”

The young Hobbit offered him a weak smile.

“You have acquitted yourself as a valiant soldier, my friend: both on the field of battle and on the stretcher these past six days. We hope to reach Cormallen before dusk tomorrow.”

This time, Pippin’s eyes lit up and his smile reached almost from ear to ear.

Sensing a ranger’s silent approach, Aragorn rose and scanned the firelit camp stretched out on all sides. Instead of one of his own Grey Company, he recognized the man he had sent to Faramir.

“Anborn,” he said, stepping forward to meet the messenger a stone’s throw away from the three tiny beds. “What news?”

“We reached the City as planned, no skirmishes along the way. They have made amazing progress in cleaning up the Pelennor and lower levels. The Lord Faramir holds rod now and is in good health. He sent you this letter.”

“Very good,” Aragorn replied, accepting the folded paper. “Have your companions returned?”

“They went straight to King Éomer, sire, but I will recalled them if you wish.”

“If they are well, I am content with your report. You may go to Mablung and the Prince now; they are surely eager to hear that the Lord Faramir is well.”

Anborn saluted and slipped silently away. Aragorn returned to the Hobbits and knelt by their campfire, squinting at the seal and address in the flickering orange light.

He heard an amused snort behind him, then a steady blue light fell over his shoulder. Gandalf had never, during the long years of preparation, lit his staff so openly for mere convenience.

“My thanks,” Aragorn said, smiling as he opened the letter and began to read.

29 Gwaeron, Year 3019,

Tower of Ecthelion,

Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,

To Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Elendil.

After a few lines, he stopped in amazement. “Is this Faramir’s handwriting?”

Gandalf leaned down to glance at the letter. “Aye.”

“Does he draw? His taste is very good.”

“You will have to ask him yourself.”

As Gandalf turned away again, Aragorn resumed reading.

Greetings, my lord, and many thanks. You gave me great joy and comfort by writing that so many of my friends are well, and by sending one of my men to me. I am sorry to hear of Peregrin’s hurt, but the rescue of Frodo and Samwise is a joy beyond my hope. Please convey to all three my best wishes for their recovery, and also my praise: for they have shown hardihood greater than most men possess. How have they fared since last you wrote?

Until your messengers came, we knew not who had survived; but within hours of the Downfall, an Eagle brought us tidings of your victory and imminent return. The whole city is overflowing with such joy and light as we could hardly have imagined in the dark years.

In answer to your questions, Elfhelm’s riders secured Anorien within five days of your departure, and with little loss on our side. Angbor arrived with his four thousand shortly after your departure. I am healed, thanks in part to your aid, as is Master Meriadoc. I took rod yesterday morning. Húrin had already made significant headway in setting the City to rights, particularly in making the lower levels safe to pass through. All the men now have lodgings, and some are working to clear the Pelennor.

Of food rations, we have enough and to spare, for my father was prepared for a long siege. Our store of medicine was depleted by the battle, but Húrin sent parties out for herbs as soon as the roads were open. I have directed the Warden to send you all that he can spare: of herbs, bandages and healers. I have also sent tents and bedding. Meriadoc is more than ready to set out tomorrow with the shipment, which will, I hope, arrive at Cair Andros on the second of Gwirith. I shall direct the men in charge of it to await your orders.

I and those with me in the City are eager to welcome you as our king. I have sent messengers to recall the women and children who were sent away during the siege; they may trickle in for some weeks. We can receive you as soon as the 6th, though not with the splendor which such an occasion deserves. I fear that Gondor no longer has craft to mend the great Gate, even if you gave us a month; but if you will tell me when you plan to arrive, and your desires regarding the ceremony, then I shall prepare as well as I may. Please write to me with anything else you may need.

I remain your servant, in gratitude and hope. May peace return to Gondor.

A note at the bottom of the page read,

Please forgive my handwriting: I am loth to recall the scribe to work after the daymeal.

Aragorn smiled, remembering Gandalf’s evasive reply about Faramir’s skill in drawing. Though the quality of his penmanship had diminished slightly by the end of the letter, and though it had never been quite standard, it was beautiful—certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

Aragorn glanced at the passage about supplies. “April 2,” he muttered aloud. “Today. Then the supplies are likely in Cair Andros by now. If I send a messenger instantly to direct them to Cormallen, we shall be better able to care for our wounded when we arrive… though I am too weary to reply to Faramir tonight. Will you stay with the Hobbits while I call an errand rider?”

“I will stay with the Hobbits all night. Get some sleep, Aragorn.” Gandalf’s staff went suddenly dark.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said sincerely.

He checked on the Hobbits before leaving, but by now Pippin was as deeply asleep as the other two. Just as well; Faramir’s praise would do more good in the morning, when he would need to rally his spirits for another day’s travel.

Chapter Text

“Leave me,” the Steward said in a hard, cold, distant voice.

“My lord,” the Warden murmured, slipping out with a bow.

Thandil stood frozen, staring at the closed door. Even Denethor had never dismissed Warden Curu in such a way. He had not treated the man with warmth, exactly—that was not Lord Denethor’s way—but their interactions were marked by a remarkably constant freedom from suspicion. That Faramir—warm, gentle, Faramir—should suddenly distrust this, of all men! It frightened Thandil deeply, but the Warden’s news hurt him more. He could not imagine how Denethor’s son felt.

Lord Faramir paced the small room, his breaths fast and labored, casting agonized glances at the chairs as he wove between them. Thandil could guess why: in this room Denethor had held most of his private conferences with his sons. The last must have been the worst, but Thandil had not seen it—he was far away, unable to give his lords even the small service of his presence. He did not know this part of their story.

He had not wanted to know, and that was what tormented him now. Weary of hearing the old Steward’s icy voice sharpened against others, of overhearing every restrained quarrel between father and son, of sensing the undercurrent of distrust as it surged ever closer to the surface, Thandil had wished only for an escape. He was ashamed now of how the news of his brother’s illness had brought relief along with fear; ashamed to know, from the wry pity in the old lord’s eyes, that his second motive for requesting leave was not hidden. And leave had been granted so quickly. If only he could believe that it was all for his brother’s sake—that alone would have been enough for Denethor, but somehow Thandil knew that his late master had also wanted to spare him from seeing the coming explosion of wounded anger. He had succeeded; Thandil had what he wanted. But he felt like a deserter, a weakling.

The noise of Faramir’s footfalls died. He sat in the low chair which he had most often used, where he had sat across from Boromir as they reported their fateful dream last summer. After staring, pale and devastated, at the headrest of his father’s chair, Faramir said weakly, “Thandil, order our horses saddled.”

“Yes, lord.” Thandil hesitated at the door, afraid to leave.

“Fetch me here when they are ready.”

He nodded and hurried away.

Faramir rode hard, trying to focus on the familiar rhythm of the running horse under him, the cold streaking back across his temples. He was no stranger to bad news, but this horror was too heavy to take up all at once. Yet he could not avoid the thought—he had chosen the road to Osgiliath, which he had not ridden since that last awful parting.

Mithrandir had been proved right—Father remembered his love before the end. But little good it did, when Faramir could not return the forgiveness. The hostile parting, he had repented already, thinking it his hardest burden. He had grieved his father’s death as a last necessary sacrifice in defense of his home and son, and called it tragic. Such an end recalled Denethor’s ancient namesake, last beloved king of the Green Elves, struck down before Thingol’s forces arrived to save him.

This was worse—worse even than the death of the last child of Húrin, for at least Túrin’s despair had not been mistaken. To give in to an insurmountable curse that proved only an illusion, to slay oneself mere moments before the Sun broke through, never to hear the horns of Rohan—the sign that Faramir’s unwilling sacrifice had not been for nothing, that he had delayed the Enemy long enough that there was still a City for Théoden to save—this was darker than Túrin’s truly hopeless end.

Mithrandir had given the order to hide these things from Faramir. If not Mithrandir and Curu, whom could he trust?

Thandil, ever thoughtful, had fetched his riding clothes, which he had been too distressed to think of. Thandil had been as ignorant of the awful truth as his lord was—Curu must have guessed that the lad’s face would betray him if he were entrusted with such a secret.

Curu, whom he had trusted since infancy with the deepest thoughts of his heart. Curu, to whom he had gone as a lad of fifteen to discuss Túrin’s tale after his father finally told him the dark ending. Curu, who had given him the impression that his father died in the Battle of the Pelennor.

Apart from the boy riding beside him, Faramir felt alone.

Ironically, at that very moment he looked up and noticed a rider approaching him on the road.

“Captain!” the man called.

Faramir reined in his horse, and both dismounted. He knew the man, another of his rangers, but he could not trust himself to speak.

“Captain—Lord Steward—are you well?”

“I am,” Faramir said haltingly. “I have just learned about… the events in Rath Dínen. Are Mablung and the others well?”

The man’s eyes widened with horror and pity. “Yes, Captain, they are all well.”

All Gondor will soon pity me, Faramir thought angrily. Can I not grieve even this in secret?

“The army is settled at Cormallen for now,” his old comrade said nervously. “The King sent you this letter.”

The King. Gondor had hope for a future now. Denethor’s end cast a shadow over even that.

Faramir reached out and took the letter gently, fixing his eyes on the address, written in a weary hand which he was beginning to know and love. “Thank you,” he said. “Will you ride back to the City with me? I would have you rest overnight and carry my reply to him, once I have written it.”

“Gladly, Captain. Lord Steward. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Faramir mounted his horse and turned it up the road again. He would read the King’s letter when he returned to the City.

Within moments of resuming his ride, Faramir unwisely, though very carefully, broke the seal and opened the letter. Despite the motion of his horse and the slightly messy letters, he was able to make out the words. It took effort, but that was just as well; when he was working hard at something, his grief could not overwhelm him so.

3 Gwirith, Year 3019

Field of Cormallen

Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Called Elfstone,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings.

We arrived at Cormallen shortly before noon today. As your letter arrived last night, I was able to direct the supplies here, and the men with me are well provided for. I thank you for providing so well for us. I rejoice also that the City is secure and beginning to recover, and that you are well.

I have given your compliments to Pippin, and he wishes me to tell you that you deserve the highest honor. His reunion with Merry was glad. Sam and Frodo are still in a deep sleep, which I hope will help them to heal, but they have withstood the journey better than I hoped. When they wake, likely in a few days, we will gather all the men to honor them. I should like to have a minstrel sing their deeds. Can you, on such short notice, send a man capable of writing and singing something to do justice to the Ringbearers? If not, I can conscript Legolas or my foster-brothers for the task, as most Elves have some skill in such things, but it seems better to me that a Man of Gondor should lead in their praise.

Your welcome, Lord Steward, does me great honor. You have smoothed my path, and for that I shall always be grateful. By your leave, I plan to enter the City no earlier than the beginning of Lothron. Three weeks will, I hope, allow the men with me to heal, give you more time to prepare, and leave sufficient travel time for any of your people who wish to attend. I will write again when I have had time to consult the Prince on other details of the coronation. I also wish to hear your counsel on the matter.

Please do not worry yourself over the appearance of the Gate; I am quite willing to walk through the gap where it used to be. It would take long months to mend, even with the right craft; but there, I believe we can help you. My friend and companion, Gimli the Dwarf of Erebor, has generously offered the skill of his kin in mending it. It shall not remain broken forever.

Be assured that I will do all I can to restore Gondor and bring peace. Fare well.

Faramir dismissed his esquire early. The lad was clearly in distress since he learned of his previous lord’s end, and Faramir suspected that both would benefit from a quiet evening alone.

No, not alone—only without another’s grief to bear. Faramir turned back at the door and took the King’s letter from his desk. It would be wise to keep a reminder of his future nearby. Thus armed, he climbed the stairs toward his living quarters.

He really should not have left the City with no warning, even if only for an hour or two. Catching up with his people’s needs had kept him busy until evening. Thanks to Thandil’s wise advise, the daymeal itself was bearable; he took it quietly, with the minstrel he had instantly know he should send to Cormallen. All was settled for the night, and the Steward was free to remember and regret alone.

Tightening his hold on the King’s letter, Faramir opened the door to his apartment—only to find himself face to face with Eradan, once his little friend, now a skilled healer and slightly larger friend.

“He told you,” Faramir concluded, seeing the concern and horror in the other man’s grey eyes. “He told you just now?”

“An hour ago,” Eradan corrected, his anxiety giving way to compassion.

They stared at each other for another moment, then Faramir fell into his old friend’s arms and finally wept.

Chapter Text

Faramir’s second letter also arrived after dark, but it was short, and this time Aragorn simply paused near a torch to read it as the messenger and his harp-wielding companion waited.

5 Gwir morning of 6 Gwirith 3019

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor

To Aragorn son of Arathorn

Greetings. I have sent our greatest minstrel, Master Glastnîr of Dol Amroth, a second cousin of the Prince, who knows the tongue of the Elves as well as any Man in Gondor. I have been in awe of his lyrics since I was small, and more so once I realized how quickly he can make them. My father used to call on him when we had need to honor a captain immediately after a victory.

I also took the liberty to send two silver circlets for the Ringbearers, and some clothing finer than what Meriadoc took them. I could only find one coat of mail in the right size, but it is lovely.

I apologize for my haste in writing this, and hope that what I have sent will aid in their honor. Please give all four Hobbits my best wishes.

The messenger offered Aragorn a lightweight bundle.

“Excellent,” he said, taking it carefully. “You may go and rest. Master Glastnîr, I am honored to meet you.”

“Sire,” the minstrel replied, bowing low. “The honor of making song for the Periain who saved us all is the greatest I could ever hope for.”

Aragorn smiled. “Lord Mithrandir will be able to tell you their tale. He is attending them right now. Please come and sit by our fire; we have food and drink, and a bed prepared for you.”

“I thank you, sire. But before I sleep, may I ask how the Ringbearers fare? When is the celebration likely to take place?”

“They have slept since they were first rescued, but grow stronger every day. I hope they may be ready tomorrow or the day after.”

“Then I had best begin writing tonight. I can sleep in the morning.”

“Very well. I shall send Lord Mithrandir to speak with you when I relieve his watch.”

As one of his rangers served the minstrel, Aragorn moved toward the torch and reexamined Faramir’s letter. His penmanship was far less elegant than in the first, especially the words ‘my father used to.’ From the date, Aragorn feared that his Steward might have stayed up all night, in search of either the minstrel or the items. If this was the case, Aragorn suspected that the sacrifice had been joyfully made; but the young man also had sorrows which might rob him of sleep.

Chapter Text

Curu knew immediately who was knocking on his door—perhaps something about the rhythm. He was not surprised, as Eradan had been checking on Faramir every evening since Curu told them how Lord Denethor had died. Probably he had come to report something.

Throwing a mantle over his nightshirt, Curu opened the door. “Come in, lad. Can I offer you a cup of water?”

“Thank you.” Eradan sank into an old wooden chair. “Lord Faramir sent you this note.”

Curu spilled a little of the water. Carefully setting down the pitcher, he studied the young healer. Eradan seemed calm, even happy, but Curu’s heart pounded.

He had never broken the old Steward’s trust—he had never dared. Since his twenty-sixth year, he had gone about his business with the rare but dubious advantage of Lord Denethor’s approval. Faramir’s approval was less fragile, and yet more precious. Curu had never feared losing it until Mithrandir gave his dratted silencing order.

Handing over the cup of water, he accepted the tiny note from Eradan’s hand. “How is he?”

Eradan drank and shook his head, smiling. “Unbreakable. He is weary, but I am not worried.” He took another sip. “That is, I am worried, of course, but the problem is with me, not with him.”

“I see. You?”

“Slightly winded from the climb, but certainly strong enough for duty tonight.” He set the empty cup on the little table and stood, smiling at Curu. “Thank you for the water. Sleep well, sir.”

“Goodnight, Eradan,” Curu said, patting the young man’s arm. “I am grateful to you for taking the night shift.”

And for leaving so quickly. As soon as the door shut behind Eradan, Curu hurried back to his candle and opened the note. He read breathlessly.

7 Gwirith 3019

Faramir, Steward of Gondor

To Curunîr, Warden of the Houses of Healing

Greetings. I am grateful to you for giving me the space I needed for my feelings. I am calm now, and regret my harsh words. Please do not fear to return, my friend.

Curu sank into a chair and breathed again. Few people understood him as fully as Faramir did. The prospect of losing such a friendship had weighed painfully on him in recent days. He shook his head, unsure whether he was weeping or laughing.

“The Warden is here, asking to speak to you,” Thandil reported anxiously the next morning.

Faramir smiled—a little sadly, but Thandil’s fear melted. “Show him in.”

The Warden still looked slightly nervous as he entered and bowed. “My lord.”

“Welcome, Master Curu. Is all well in the Houses?”

“As well as I can make it. Are you well, lord?”

“Better than expected.” Faramir sighed. “Curu, I am sorry for speaking harshly to you. I was shocked.”

“I know. I am sorry… I was afraid to hide the truth from you. Perhaps it would have been better if you knew before you left the Houses.”

“We will never know now,” Faramir said softly. “But I understand why Lord Mithrandir recommended it. I have forgiven both of you.”

The Warden blinked and raised his eyes to meet the younger man’s. “I am grateful.”

“I could not lose any more…” Faramir shook his head.

The Warden waited sympathetically. The silence dragged on, less awkward than Thandil would have believed possible considering the situation.

Finally, Faramir looked up. “Have you any requests on behalf of the Houses?”

“I do, my lord,” the Warden replied with a smile. “All my patients are as well as I can make them, but perhaps not as well as you can. The Lady Éowyn improved while you and the perian were with her, but now that you are gone, she has grown pale again. I hoped it might pass in a few days, but it has not. I believe she is lonely, and I do not believe she would appreciate my companionship.”

Faramir frowned, eyes suddenly grave. “Thank you for reporting this to me. I have not visited her in four days. I will come—within the hour, if I can, but do not promise her a time.”

“Thank you, Lord Faramir. She still walks in the garden every morning.”

The Warden took his leave, and the Steward took stock of his morning responsibilities with an eager fervor which he had not shown since before the news.

Chapter Text

A young birch stood watch at the easternmost edge of the gardens, its slender branches reaching up to catch the last rays of afternoon sun in hundreds of fresh emerald leaves. It was, Faramir thought, a fitting canopy for the White Lady of Rohan. She perched on a wooden bench beneath it, golden hair spilling over her white robe, her posture radiating hope and vigor.

When he called out a greeting, she turned toward him with a smile, then rose and swept across the grass, eyes dancing. “Do you miss me so soon, my lord Faramir?”

Faramir caught her hands and kissed them both, his own eyes twinkling. “For your sake, my White Lady, I would leave directly and keep away until dawn. You have but to say the word.”

Dismay passed briefly over Éowyn’s face, then she laughed merrily. “Oh, you are too clever to tease! Come, sit down.”

“If that is so,” Faramir said smiling, “May I expect never to be teased again?”

“Certainly not; I enjoy watching a man of skill parry my attacks. But you have not answered my question.”

They settled side by side on the bench. Faramir had lost hold of Éowyn’s left hand, but she clasped his warmly in her right. He smiled down at her, giddy with contentment.

“Well?”

“Ah, yes. I missed you before noon, but that alone did not compel me to visit. I come because I  have just received glad news, and I could not resist the temptation to share it with you.” He took out the King’s letter, thankful after all that his right hand was empty.

“You have yet to break the seal,” she observed, surprised. “How do you know the news is glad?”

“The messenger told me as much,” he said, breaking the seal. “But I think, from the weight of this letter, that it may contain more details than he could give. I had no heart to read it without you.”

“Now that I am here, you may proceed,” she commented, looking over his shoulder eagerly.

“As you wish, Lady,” he said, and began to read aloud:

9 Gwirith Year 3019

Field of Cormallen

Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Elessar,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings.

“How do you like that?” he paused to ask.

“Very dull,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “But if you are trying to imitate my brother, I congratulate you on your success.”

Faramir grinned and continued:

Yesterday I had the joy of seeing all four of our Hobbit friends enjoy a feast. The Ringbearers awoke that morning, Frodo in time to watch the sunrise. Gandalf tells me that he enjoyed it. I had just left them to arrange their festival. Peregrin was well enough to rise the day before; he and Meriadoc took great delight in waiting on us at the feast, in their full liveries.

At noon, Gandalf brought the Ringbearers to the lawn on which the thrones of the lords are set. The trumpeters played, and the whole army, both that which we took to the Black Gate and all that could be spared from the garrison at Cair Andros, stood in their honor, and sang of their valor in all the tongues they knew. I did homage to them, and set them on my throne in the center, so that all might see that we truly owe our victory to them.

Glastnîr had composed his lay the very night he arrived, only willing to sleep when it was finished near dawn. I must thank you for sending him, and so quickly. He did justice to their tale, as few could. When he finished, I could not find a dry eye in the place. Samwise wept in joy even before the song began; for he had, during dark parts of their journey, wished for their tale to someday be told in song.

All the Hobbits send you greetings, but especially the Ringbearers. Samwise wishes you to know that, although he no longer has any of your gifts, Middle-earth would have been lost without them. The food you shared kept him and Frodo from starving before they reached Mount Doom, and the staffs came in handy for self-defense as well as support.

I could write you much of their tale, and I shall if you request it; but in a few weeks you may hear it first hand, and I think you would enjoy that better. Suffice it to say that Frodo and Samwise did, after several misadventures and a cruel journey, reach Orodruin. Frodo wishes me to assure you that Gollum’s part in the ending will interest you even more than his history, and that you shall hear both in full at the earliest opportunity.

“Whatever have I done to Frodo to deserve such a tantalyzing hint?” Faramir laughed.

“How do you read so swiftly?” Éowyn asked. “The Crith are clear enough, but your Tengwar, lovely as they are, run together so smoothely that I can hardly tell where one ends and the next begins.”

“I suppose my fluency is a result of the many happy hours I spent practicing during my youth and childhood,” he replied absentmindedly. “Let me think, this is the first time the King has mentioned Gollum. Seemingly, he was not rescued with the Ringbearers. This must mean that either Gollum is dead, or he has disappeared, or Aragorn assumed that I would not be worried for his welfare.”

“But he has a great deal more to relate, does he not?” Éowyn murmured, laying her golden head on Faramir’s shoulder. “I may not be able to count the letters remaining, but I am sure they exceed a thousand.”

“Vere likely,” said Faramir, returning his attention to the letter. He read on:

We at the Black Gate had no tidings of the Ringbearers since they left you, so when the emissary of our enemy brought out Frodo’s elven-cloak and mithril-shirt and Sam’s sword—

“Mithril?” Faramir exclaimed. “He must be speaking of mail, yet I never saw any on Frodo. I shall have to ask him when I write back.”

“I suppose the captains thought the mission had failed?” Éowyn prompted.

“Ah, yes. When those were brought out, he continues,”

…we had a dreadful fright. Happily, there is a good story behind the loss of those items—but as I said, I shall leave it for Frodo and Samwise to tell. We did not know of their success until, in the thick of the battle, the Nazgûl departed without warning. Before long, the earth shook like an iced jelly, Orodruin erupted in wrath, and the Black Gate crumbled with all its ramparts. We saw a shadow rise in the form of a grasping hand, then dissolve in the West wind. When it was gone, all the monsters arrayed against us lost heart and scattered. The Men, as I think I have mentioned, in large part fled with somewhat more order, and some had courage to fight or surrender. When the battle was over, I and the other captains rode through the ruin of the Morannon. We did not go far, for the ash was thick and dangerous further in.

But I have strayed from the tale of Frodo and Sam’s feast; after their praises had been sung for most of the afternoon, the feast was set out, and they were allowed to change into more comfortable clothing, for they had been wearing the garments, mostly Orc-stuff, which they wore for the last part of their journey, in honor of their labor. I am thankful for your foresight in sending finery for them. Frodo’s mithril-coat had been recovered, and the one you sent fit Sam very well. They also wore the circlets at table.

Gimli mentions that I have forgotten to tell you about Frodo’s mithril-coat. It was originally Merry would prefer to tell you the tale himself, though it seems he shall have to fight Pippin for the honor. (I am sitting with the Hobbits, Legolas the Elf, and Gimli the Dwarf as I write this.) About the coat, I will only say that Frodo kept it secret from all of us, even Sam I believe, as long as possible, by wearing it under his clothes. It is Dwarf-work, the most beautiful mail you are likely ever to see. Legolas claims that it was made for him when he was small, and I cannot tell if he is jesting. Whether in earnest or not, he is immensely enjoying my confusion. But I do know that it saved Frodo’s life on at least one occasion, probably three. We were all astonished when we discovered it, but all agree that the tale would go better face to face.

I hope that day will not be far off; by your leave, I am ready to set the day of my return as the first of Lothron. I am certain that I should wear the Elessar, but what think you about the Star of Elendil? You know the customs of Gondor, and the feelings of her lords, better than I. The Prince has found me mail worthy of the occasion, but I do not think that my Elf-cloak would be appropriate, as I will need to be visible. It seems likewise inappropriate to borrow something in the livery of Amroth.

Take care of yourself. Legolas warns you not to forget that spring is in full blossom. Meriadoc wishes to know how the Lady Éowyn fares, and all wish you well and happy.

“He must have spent hours writing that,” Éowyn remarked.

“Yes,” said Faramir. “This was very kind of him. But how shall I answer Meriadoc’s enquiry?”

Éowyn smiled up at him, eyes sparkling. “Tell him that I am very well and happy, and if he has been waiting for me to fall in love with you, then his wait is over.”

“It was a long wait,” Faramir replied, smiling.

“Long?” Éowyn laughed. “Darling man, you knew me for less than twenty days before I accepted you.”

“To think,” he mused, “That while Glastnîr sang the praises of the Ringbearers, we were on the wall, settling our future.”

“And kissing scandalously,” she added, smiling. “News of that has certainly gone far and wide. The healers try not to whisper while I am nearby, but I have sharp ears. Oh, no need for remorse—they are delighted for us.”

“I am glad to hear that. I could have found the strength to live without you, but Éowyn, I am so impossibly happy. To win your heart, and to welcome back a King—it is far beyond any blessing I could have imagined, and all in a single spring. It seems a different world.”

“It is.”

“But I have a task, and a delightful one. If the coronation is to be held in less than twenty days, then I must not delay my counsel any longer.” He studied the end of the letter. “My uncle’s mail will be silver, the same color as his brooch setting… And to think that the Star of Elendil has survived from the Second Age!”

“The star of Elendil?”

“An heirloom of the house of Arnor. But I should not say the Second Age, for I think I read that it was lost with Isildur, and the one now in use is a copy from early in the Third Age.”

“What does it look like?”

“A large adamant on a fillet of mithril. I have never yet seen it; I must recommend that he wear it to his coronation. My lady, how would you counsel him to appear?”

“On his mighty steed with the smooth silver coat and perfect conformation, dressed in green and white,” Éowyn replied, straight-faced.

Faramir smiled.

“I would counsel him to ride Roheryn because I think he should really walk to his coronation, being named Wingfoot; but I suspect that he fears to follow my advice lest I take it as romantic encouragement.”

“What a dreadful position for him. Should I tell him, then, that he need no longer fear for you?”

“It would be a fitting reward for his kindness.”

“But I suppose I should ask him to keep the news from your brother.”

“Yes, I will write to Éomer myself, if you will provide the necessary tools.”

“Certainly.” As he stirred, thinking of which paper to give her, Faramir noticed that dusk had covered the garden: only the highest leaves still kept their golden-green radiance. “I must go and prepare for the daymeal, but I will send you paper, ink, and pen within the hour.”

“Would you care to dine here with me?”

“On most evenings, I would, but my aunt and step-cousins from Lossarnach have just arrived.”

“Step-cousins? I have never heard that term.”

“My father’s eldest sister, Lady Esgalloth, married late. Her husband was a widower with five children, and they were very happy together. Forlong is—was—his heir. Felagon is the new lord of Lossarnach. We, ah, Boromir and I spent a month with them the summer after our mother died. I shall miss Forlong; he was very kind to us, and carried me all over the grounds. I had just been very ill.”

“I am sorry. I wish I could have met him.”

“Éowyn, would you like to dine with us? There will be room at the table.”

“I have nothing suitable to wear.”

“And you will need something for the coronation, I shall see about that… but tonight, if you think your other robe too plain, you might wear a gown of my mother’s which has been kept carefully. It is silver and very beautiful, and I think it would fit you. There are also ornaments, of which you could have your choice.”

Éowyn blushed. “Oh, Faramir, you are too generous.”

“I want to see you wear it,” he countered, smiling. “The only drawback is that Auntie Esgalloth will recognize it, even after thirty years, and guess what we are about. Oh, and it may be out of fashion; I am not certain, for I rarely have time to observe the ladies of court.”

“I do not mind fashion; but do you think your aunt and her kin will approve of me?”

“Certainly. Some of them are kin to your grandmother Morwen.”

“Then I am grateful to accept your offer.”

Éowyn emerged from the spare room with her front hair swept back from her face in braids, clasped at the back with a ring of pearls. The lady’s maid Faramir had somehow procured for her had draped the rest over her left shoulder, golden as wheat against the silvery gown of Finduílas. The train hissed softly against the stone floor as she walked.

Faramir stared in awe for a moment, then offered his arm. “You look like a river-nymph,” he whispered.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No, but Samwise did and described her to me.”

“Hmm.”

Faramir led her to a large dining room, hung with many tapestries and principally occupied by a long table with several dozen handsome wooden chairs. Éowyn counted thirty-seven place settings. She had just begun to wonder if Faramir had invited the whole royal court when the door opened and at least three dozen people swarmed in.

Two or three resembled Faramir, and a few had the bright hair and eyes of her own people, but most were dark-haired, dark-eyed and, compared to Faramir, dark-skinned. A very tall, stately lady walked at the head of the group, upright and unfaltering, although Faramir had said that she was in her ninety-seventh year. She was grey-eyed and ivory-skinned, her noble face lined with joy as well as sorrow, heavy silver hair swept up into a coil on her head.

Faramir’s face lit when he saw her. “Welcome, Auntie,” he said, bending to kiss her hand, almost reverently. “How was your journey?”

“Very pleasant,” she said, then laid one hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead. “My dear nephew, it is good to see you well.” She looked past him to Éowyn, taking in the gown. Slowly, her dark eyes filled with warmth. “Is this the lady who slew the Rider that gave you so much trouble last summer?”

“This is Éowyn of Rohan, brother of Éomer King and granddaughter of Morwen Steelsheen,” Faramir announced, glowing with pride, “And the only person ever to slay one of that kind.”

“I am honored to meet you, Lady Éowyn,” Lady Esgalloth said, taking Éowyn’s hand and kissing her forehead. “Welcome,” she whispered, her eyes creasing at the corners.

Éowyn had all she could do not to gape. Her people only kissed near kin. She had always supposed Gondor to be a nation of solemn scholars who would hesitate to even touch a friend’s hand. True, she had seen them tearfully embrace and kiss each other in the Houses of Healing, but those people had just survived a war. And yes, Faramir was free with his affection, but he was Faramir. Surely, she had thought, most of them generally held back from showing open affection; but the behavior of this stately noblewoman told a different tale. Could the people of Gondor actually be less reserved than her own?

At first, the small crowd had gone as still as several young families can, hanging back as their grandmother greeted their host; but as soon as he turned toward them, they surged forward. Faramir met them with equal eagerness, laughing as he clasped hands, patted shoulders, ruffled hair, and—Éowyn was almost certain—kissed every man, woman, and child in the group. In a moment, he was half-buried in the center of the group, a child in each arm and another climbing his back like a tree.

“Has Faramir told you the family tree yet?” Lady Esgalloth asked.

“Only Felagon,” she replied.

“Éowyn,” Faramir called, his voice trembling, “We have a new baby.”

Éowyn came to his side prepared to learn as many names as possible, and perhaps receive more kisses than expected. His kin looked on her eagerly, curiously, admiringly.

A young woman with copper-colored hair and soft brown eyes turned to show the baby in her arms. “His name is Boromir,” she said.

Éowyn glanced at Faramir; he reached for her hand, eyes overflowing with tears as he smiled on the babe.

“He is beautiful,” Éowyn said to the mother. “How old is he?”

“A month yesterday, my lady. We had just had word of the Captain-general’s death.”

“Thank you,” Faramir whispered.

“The honor is ours, kinsman,” said a young man, likely her husband. “Boromir son of Halbard son of Felagon son of Forlong son of Herubrand.”

“Ah yes, introductions,” Faramir said under his breath; then more loudly, “I think you all know my betrothed now; if you would be so kind as to sort yourselves into families, I will try to introduce all of you.”

As the others began to comply, a tiny girl tugged on Faramir’s coat. “Lowd Fawamiw, you gonna wed?”

“Yes, Haleth,” said Faramir, sweeping her up in his left arm. “Lady Éowyn has agreed to be my wife.”

Little Haleth leaned close to his ear and announced in something well above a whisper, “Ladywyn vewy pwetty!”

The room erupted in laughter, and Éowyn began to feel at home.

Chapter Text

“King Elessar!” a voice cried from outside the tent. “Wake up! You have business!”

Aragorn dragged a hand over his face, groggily noting the fresh dawn light and the high pitch of the voice calling him—Pippin. Pippin had taken to calling him by very official names while on duty. Aragorn smiled fondly.

Pippin never woke so thoroughly this early in the morning. Aragorn sat up, eyes wide. “Come in, Pippin,” he called, trying to keep the alarm from his voice.

“Another messenger arrived at midnight,” the young Hobbit informed him, popping under the tent flap with a very bright look on his face. Aragorn’s shoulders relaxed. “Gandalf made him go to bed because you were asleep, but he had a letter from Faramir, and Merry and I want to know what’s in it! When you get up, Gandalf will let him give it to you. Will you read it to us? Merry already got his letter, from Éowyn, but she only said that she has finally come to her senses about Faramir. His last letter was so short, and you thought he was upset—he must have heard about his poor father—but this one looks longer, I think. Will you read it? Perhaps he is telling you the full story of his proposal to her!”

“I doubt that,” Aragorn replied, reaching for his boots, “But when I am dressed, you may lead me to the messenger, and I will see what he has written.”

“Will you read it to me?”

“Anything that is not private. But I warn you, I have asked his advice about clothing and such, so it may be rather dull.”

“I’m sure Faramir couldn’t write a dull letter. Well, I suppose he could if he tried—Merry says he is dizzyingly clever—but he would never do that to you. Merry has gone to tell Frodo about Faramir and Éowyn getting married, if he is awake; we shall have to look for them afterward. Are you ready yet?”

“Patience, Pippin,” Aragorn laughed, tying his last boot lace and reaching for his elven-cloak. “Not to appear at court, certainly, but I am ready to read a letter. Where is this messenger?”

“Out here, eating first breakfast with your men. Come on!”

The messenger, another of Faramir’s rangers, rose as they approached. “Lord Elfstone,” he said, bowing, “I arrived several hours ago, but Lord Mithrandir ordered me to wait until you were up.”

“That is well. Master Peregrin reports that you have a letter for me?”

“From the Lord Faramir, sire,” said the man, offering a letter and a heavy bundle of cloth.

“Thank you,” said Aragorn, taking both carefully. “You may return to your company.” As the ranger departed, he turned to Pippin. “Which way did Merry and Frodo go?”

“Merry only went to look for Frodo; I don’t know if they have gone anywhere yet. But if Frodo is up, he will likely be at the top of that rise near the apple tree. He likes to watch the sunrise from there.”

Aragorn checked the Hobbits’ sleeping area to be sure, but only Sam remained abed. Aragorn was glad; the little Hobbit-gardener had used up all his strength in Mordor, and although he would never admit it, his body still needed rest just as desperately as Frodo’s spirit did.

Frodo and Merry were in fact under the apple tree Pippin had indicated, curly brown heads bent together over Éowyn’s letter as the pink and gold of sunrise faded into fresh blue.

“Merry, Frodo!” Pippin cried, dashing forward, “Strider is here, and he has a letter from Faramir! He has promised to read it to us. What does it say?”

Aragorn smiled, happy that Pippin had forgotten to call him Elessar. “May I sit with you?” he asked the other two.

“Certainly,” Frodo said with a welcoming smile, gesturing with his bandaged hand to the grass beside him. “Good morning, Aragorn, Pippin.”

“Thank you,” said Aragorn, sitting down. “How are you this morning?”

“Aside from the insufferable itch in my hand, pretty well. The good news about Faramir and Éowyn has nearly driven it from my mind.”

“And Aragorn may have more details,” said Pippin, dropping to the ground beside him. “Faramir writes longer letters than Éowyn. What does it say, Strider? What’s in the bundle? Did he send you the clothes he wants you to wear?”

“Very likely,” said Aragorn, breaking the seal without further delay. “I daresay he has told me in his letter.”

“Well?” Pippin prompted

Laughing, Aragorn began to read aloud.

12 Gwirith, Year 3019

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor

To Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Heir of Elendil,

Greetings, and many thanks for your generous letter. It is a balm to my heart to know that all four of these worthy Hobbits have lived to rejoice in the new world which they made possible.

Frodo, Merry, and Pippin blushed awkwardly. Smiling pointedly at them, Aragorn continued.

Please thank them for their greetings, and give them my congratulations on their recoveries. I am grateful also to Gimli for his comment about the mithril-coat, for it saved me several days of speculations. I look forward to seeing you all again, and hearing your tales in full.

I am exceedingly glad to hear that you have honored the Ringbearers so highly. No one could deserve more praise and gratitude. Éowyn is making plans to reward Meriadoc’s valor, and I shall not forget Peregrin’s role in saving me. I read your letter with her, for we came to love each other in the Houses of Healing. She wishes you to know that she has agreed to wed with me. Please do not speak of this to her brother until he mentions it: she has written to him and to Master Meriadoc, but the messengers may find you first. I imagine the brevity of our courtship will surprise you, sire, but we are both certain of our hearts, and hope that the alliance will be agreeable to all other concerned parties.

I put the question of your regalia to the Lady Éowyn, and she recommends that you wear white and green. I quite agree; which is to say, the Elessar cannot possibly be omitted, and I wish to give you the ceremonial mantle which was made for my brother a few years ago. It is snow white, very beautiful, and in good condition; he wore it only on state occasions. I would have you wear it when you enter: for you are our hope, which white represents better than black would; and you are our champion, as Boromir was.

The mantle is in the color of the House of Húrin; but if you wear black mail under the white, or if we alter it to bear your device, I think there shall be no confusion. I plan to wear my father’s mantle, which is black with the Tree worked in white; but if you would rather wear black, I can have the seven stars added to it, and send it to you instead.

I am eager to see the Star of Elendil, of which I have read, and so my heart would counsel you to wear it when you come—but you asked my political advice. While it could alarm those most exclusively loyal to Gondor (with whom I am speaking, to reassure them of your suitability), I can honestly recommend that you wear it. You are the heir to both kingdoms, and only harm could come of trying to cover that. Furthermore, those who saw you as you first appeared to us in battle will remember it, so it will confirm, if any doubt, that you are the man who helped them on the Pelennor.

Éowyn also recommends that you ride your beautiful grey horse to your coronation, but I do not think she is in earnest. Even if she is, I disagree. You came as a warrior, but also with healing hands, and I think it best that you enter as in peacetime. Walking will not clash with your role as our protector, either, for Mithrandir tells me that you spent the greater part of these past years defending Middle-earth on foot.

With Boromir’s mantle, I am sending you a coat of black mail and a silver belt which, though less fine than those of Lórien, would not, I think, disgrace the sheath of Narsil. If any alterations are needed, please send the garments back to us with instructions as soon as possible. If you would rather wear silver mail with a black mantle, you have only to write and I will send those instead.

I hope Peregrin and the Ringbearers are still mending. Please send to me for anything they, or the others of your party, may desire from the City. Fare well, my lord.

“What do you think of that?” Aragorn asked, turning to his youngest listener.

“He very generous,” said Pippin gravely.

“Oh, dear,” Merry teased, “What are you about to ask for?”

“No, I mean about Boromir’s mantle. He really does like Strider as well as I thought.”

“Yes,” said Aragorn, “He is giving me a high honor.”

“Do you plan to accept it, then?” asked Merry. “Can we see it?”

Aragorn opened the bundle, revealing fine white cloth.

“Are you going to try it on?” Merry asked.

“Do I have straw on my back?”

Merry leaned over to check. “No, but you have a great deal of dry leaves and grass. I suppose you had better wait until you are clean. But will you at least hold it up for us?”

Aragorn stood and shook out the garment, which fell in smooth ripples of white cloth nearly to the ground. The fitted upper section looked broad enough to cover Boromir’s shoulders.

“Does it have any designs?” Merry asked, studying it reverently. “I can’t see the top.”

“No,” said Aragorn, re-folding it as well as he could. “The standard of the Stewards is plain white.”

Merry frowned. “Exactly like a flag of surrender?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me help you fold that?” asked Legolas.

Aragorn started and glanced over his shoulder at the new arrival. Frodo, apparently the most alert of the group, snickered at his surprise.

“You are making it very untidy,” Legolas reasoned.

Aragorn turned away to hide the amusement in his eyes. “I am aware,” he said sternly, “And I would have welcomed your help from the start if you had not snuck here on your silent Elf-feet.”

“Will you welcome it now?”

“Certainly.”

Legolas lifted the hem of the garment and began deftly to fold it. “I do not know what you mean about sneaking,” he said. “I ran up here about twice as loudly as usual, for I was preoccupied with the rumor running through camp.”

“Rumor?” Pippin repeated in surprise. “Have they made Frodo out to be the Hobbit-king?”

“No,” Legolas replied with a smile, then looked pointedly at Aragorn. “The camp is abuzz with the report that your new Steward kissed the Lady of Rohan passionately, on top of a wall in public view.”

“Are you concerned?” Aragorn asked mildly, kneeling with the mantle in his lap. “Here, Merry.”

“Only curious,” Legolas replied. “I thought you might have heard the story first-hand.”

“Well, I have not. He only mentioned that she had agreed to be his wife.”

“Ah, that would explain matters.”

“Are you speaking of my sister?” Éomer called sternly, striding up the hill with a scrap of paper in his hand and Gimli at his side.

“Please do not stab the Elf,” Aragorn requested mildly, not looking up. “He means no harm.”

“Aye, and you would have my axe to contend with,” Gimli rumbled, hiding a smile behind his beard.

“I am only here to satisfy the curiosity of our friend,” Éomer assured them. “My sister did explain the incident to me, and you may rest assured that the character of Aragorn’s Steward is not suspect.”

“Good!” said Legolas. “How exactly did he kiss her?”

Éomer narrowed his sky-blue eyes. “You may not come from royalty, Master Legolas, but you should know better than to ask such questions. If my sister wishes you to know, she will tell you.”

“Your pardon, sire,” Legolas said humbly, his face suddenly pinched, but his eyes dancing.

“Well, what have we missed?” Gimli interrupted helpfully. “Éomer said you had a letter.”

“Faramir said to thank you for reminding Aragorn that he wouldn’t know about the mithril-coat,” Merry reported eagerly. “Otherwise, he would have spent days wondering.”

“At least I have a solid defense if Gandalf questions my at your service when the rest of us meet Faramir,” Gimli muttered, though his friends could tell that he was pleased.

“What’s the other thing in the bundle?” Pippin asked.

Éomer stood with his arms crossed, trying to keep a straight face as he watched the distraction attempt. Legolas had turned away, shaking silently and pressing a hand to his mouth.

Aragorn unwrapped the remainder of the bundle and held up a long shirt of black mail.

Gimli fingered the hem thoughtfully. “Our smiths could do much better, but this will set off your sword-sheath and brooch to great advantage. Most men would have sought your favor with a finer hauberk, but this Faramir has his priorities straight.”

Next, Aragorn lifted up a beautiful silver belt, each plate etched with the White Tree.

“Not bad,” said Gimli. “Plain compared to Elf-work, but the details are very nice.”

“Why, thank you,” said Legolas, who had finally recovered from his suppressed laughter.

“Not this Elf’s work,” Gimli grumbled, pretending to glare at his friend.

Éomer laughed, then turned to Frodo. “How does the Ringbearer fare?”

“Better every day, thank you,” said Frodo. “But I wish we were not excluding Sam; he has also missed hearing the letter.”

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam panted, running up the hill. “You ought to have woken me!”

“No, I ought not, Sam,” Frodo replied. “You deserve your rest, and Merry was with me.”

“Sam,” cried Pippin, “You missed Faramir’s letter!”

“And his gifts,” Merry added.

“They were all for Aragorn,” Pippin clarified quickly. “But he offered the rest of us anything we wish! I mean to ask for a hug.”

Sam looked dazedly from one young gentlehobbit to the other, still blinking the slumber from his brown eyes.

“Éomer, Gimli, and I also missed the letter,” Legolas said kindly. “Aragorn was about to read it to us. Will you sit with me?”

“If you’ll sit near Mr. Frodo, sir,” Sam replied staunchly. He plopped down at Frodo’s right hand, and Legolas silently descended to Sam’s right. Aragorn retrieved his letter and sat beside Legolas. Gimli claimed his other side, with Éomer standing behind them and the younger Hobbits on Frodo’s left.

Leaning forward to look over Aragorn’s shoulder, Éomer whistled. “That may be the longest letter I have ever seen. Beautifully written, too. Did he use a scribe?”

“No,” said Aragorn. “This is all in Faramir’s hand. Your sister is marrying a true scholar.”

Éomer shook his head, laughing. “I never dreamed she would even look at a scholar.”

Chapter Text

“What took you so long?” Éowyn asked as Faramir joined her on the blanket spread out on the grass under a tall elm in a corner of the gardens.

“Just as I was leaving the Citadel, a messenger arrived from Cormallen. The King has sent me another letter, and I shall not be able to swallow a bite until I have read it.”

“Go ahead, then,” she said, crossing her legs and retrieving a dried peach to nibble.

Faramir opened the seal and began to read aloud.

14 Gwirith, Year 3019,

Field of Cormallen

Aragorn Elessar,

Son of Arathorn,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings. The Hobbits continue to heal. Peregrin is quite strong now. Samwise is getting his strength back, and has begun to wake near dawn as he used to. Frodo’s hand is healing well where he lost his finger. He is in good spirits and often walks in the forest or goes on picnics with his friends.

“Walking and picnicking,” Éowyn said, her sea-grey eyes laughing. “It seems you have a great deal in common with Frodo.”

Faramir smiled at her and continued.

They look forward to telling you their tales next month, but plan to remain here until I enter the City. Ithilien is a more restful place for the Ringbearers to heal. I know that you are likely very busy, but if you have time, or if you need to rest, you are very welcome to visit us. I am grateful for your service, and I want you to take what time you need to care for yourself.

I rejoice with you and the Lady Éowyn, and wish you many happy years together. Her brother has taken the news calmly; the Hobbits heartily approve, as does your kinsman the Prince. I do not think anyone else will object: indeed, a marriage alliance between Gondor and Rohan can only help both.

Faramir paused to examine the paragraph carefully. Finding no hint of disappointment, he let out the breath he had been holding.

“Were you really so anxious?” Éowyn laughed. “You know that if he had shown any hint of interest in me, I would have noticed.”

“I know, but I was anxious nonetheless. We made the decision without the counsel of others; we could very easily offend someone.” The next sentence caught his eye and he smiled.

I am honored by your gift of Boromir’s mantle, and I shall be proud to wear it. The mail and belt are also I have no objections to wearing white with black mail, and the belt is beautiful. Gimli tells me that it is of good workmanship, for something Man-made. He would like to etch the Seven Stars above each of the trees, if you are willing, but he has not the tools needed. The mail fits me well, but the mantle is about three fingers too broad on each shoulder. I do not know if you have time to alter it, but I have sent it back in case you wish to. If you do not, I am willing to wear it as-is.

It occurs to me that we have not discussed what color of clothing and boots I should wear under the above gear. I have been borrowing grey things from the Prince, and I am content to continue; but if you have other preferences, I am ready to wear whatever you send.

Although I dwelt some years in Gondor in the service of your father’s father, Lord Ecthelion, I know little of the customs of the ancient kings. Are you familiar with their history? What would you advise in my case? Where should the coronation be held, and who should attend? I know that the return of an heir to Isildur is not as simple a case as if I were of Anarion’s line. I would not antagonize your lords, nor press myself on your people against their will. I wish to come in whatever manner will best allow them to choose me freely, or to reject me. You know best how to achieve this.

You have my gratitude for all the advice and aid you have sent. I hope that you and those with you are well. Farewell.

Faramir sighed as he folded the letter. “I should have considered what clothes and boots he should wear.”

“Green,” said Éowyn.

“Green?”

“Green would liven up his outfit. Green cloth, black mail, white mantle and boots… Yes, he will cut a very striking figure.” She frowned in mock-solemnity. “He probably already has an old green shirt; tell him to wear that.”

“Black or grey would be more appropriate,” Faramir countered, smiling. “But grey might ruin the effect of the contrast. I can certainly find him a set of black clothes and boots. In fact,” and he began to rise, “I will go and look for them now.”

“But you promised to eat with me,” Éowyn protested.

Faramir settled again, laughing at himself. “Then I will look for black clothing and Gimli’s tools after we have finished our picnic. What would I do without you… and my friends… and my servants?”

“You would keep working at your task until you finished it or fainted, to the King’s dismay. Try a dried peach; they are quite good.”

Chapter Text

Aragorn and Imrahil looked up from the map as the Prince’s esquire slipped into the tent. “Sire,” he said, “A messenger is here from the Lord Steward, with a letter and a package for you.”

Aragorn looked to Imrahil for permission, then replied, “Show him in.”

The esquire disappeared, shortly replaced by a ranger.

“Elendur,” Aragorn exclaimed, rising to embrace the old man. “I thought Faramir would send back his man. I hope Amlach is still well?”

“Perfectly well, sire,” said Elendur, a smile creasing his leathery face. “But so am I, so your Steward allowed me and Baran to carry the letter. One of his other rangers is still laid up. I think he held Amlach back to keep the lad company.”

“I see. And you rode all the way here without pain?”

“It would take more than a knife in the gut to kill old Elendur. But Baran still suffers headaches if he does not rest, so we stopped overnight at Cair Andros.”

Aragorn grinned. “Where is he now?”

“Off greeting our people and seeing to the horses. Ah, I nearly forgot. The Steward sent these.” Elendur handed over a small but heavy bundle and a letter.

“Thank you,” said Aragorn. “I will be over to examine his head once I have read this. You may join the others; they will be glad to see you, and I believe they have ale to share.”

Elendur grinned. “Thank you, sire. I will be sure to keep the news from Baran, lest he flee.”

Aragorn laughed. When the ranger had gone, he turned to the Prince. “Would you like to hear Faramir’s letter?”

“I would be glad to. Shall I read it to you? Your voice has seemed hoarse recently.”

“Thank you.” Aragorn broke the seal and gave the letter to Imrahil, who began to read. His voice sounded very similar to Faramir’s.

19 Gwirith, Year 3019,

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

To Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Heir of Elendil,

Greetings. I thank you, sire, for your kind invitation for me to visit; but I am well, and while this month lasts, I am more tempted by the honor of preparing for your coming. Moreover, people are coming in from the country in greater numbers, and I fear that the task of finding shelter for all of them will soon be too great for either myself or Húrin alone.

I have asked the Lady Morwen of Morthond and her daughter to alter Boromir’s mantle for you. She says it is possible. She and her husband Duinhir lost both their sons on the Pelennor, and she was home when you passed with the Dead Army. They have felt understandably suspicious, but I think they are coming to trust you now. I chose her for the task because she is a skilled broidress, and I hope that the honor of helping you with your mantle will build further trust. They are good people.

Of course Gimli may add your stars to the belt. I have sent engraving tools for him to use. The silversmith who provided them assures me they will be sufficient, but if he needs others please send for them. I am sorry to have replied so late; not too late for his plans, I hope. The ladies of Morthond did not arrive until yesterday.

The crown itself is safe in the House of the Kings, as my line has kept it since the departure of Eärnur. According to the ancient custom, the heir would receive it from his father without any observers. Your case is very different, and I think a public ceremony is advisable; in fact, as public as possible. Many in Gondor have long agreed with Pelendur’s judgement. Although your aid, so desperately needed, has won most of the nation, I think a few of the lords still doubt my wisdom in accepting your claim. The common people, however, are almost unanimously in favor of taking you as King. If we hold the coronation on the field just outside the outer walls, we will have room for a great many of those who will welcome you with the most enthusiasm.

Some of the lords have asked me whether you will keep me as Steward after you accept the crown. They trust me and know that I care for Gondor, but they do not yet know you. What shall I tell them?

I rejoice that the Hobbits are healing so swiftly, and that I can offer a land such as Ithilien for their convalescence. They must not think of leaving until they are ready. Please give them my greetings and blessing. Farewell.

“So he has been wondering about that,” Aragorn sighed. “Well, he shall not wonder for long.” He looked thoughtfully at his ally. “Your family is considered equal in status to the Stewards, is it not?”

“Ours has the ancient Elven blood, theirs the White Rod. Overall, we are closer in status to each other than to any of the other noble houses of Gondor.”

“And do I remember rightly that Faramir’s forefathers were once lords of Ithilien?”

“Only of Emyn Arnen; the House of Húrin has held it longer than they have served as Stewards.”

“Do you think Faramir would like to be Prince of Ithilien?”

Imrahil smiled as Aragorn had seldom seen him smile before.

Chapter Text

Seven full days remained before Aragorn’s Coronation. Éowyn was to dine with the lords and ladies from South Gondor, and Faramir had promised to walk with her to the Citadel. Even now, she hated to sit indoors when the towering bulk of Mount Mindolluin cast the whole city into shadow during the hour before sunset. Instead, she went out into the garden to wait for Faramir in the free mountain air.

The warm day had begun to cool by the time Faramir entered the gardens, limping slightly. He was not dressed for court; in fact, his clothes were stained with dirt. He smiled wearily as Éowyn approached, straightening his drooping shoulders.

“My White Lady,” he sighed. Before he could find the strength to tell her how lovely she looked, she reached up, took his face between her hands, and gently kissed his brow. His shoulders relaxed, and he let his head fall to her shoulder with a sigh.

“Is something wrong, my love?” she asked.

“All is in order until tomorrow, when more visitors will arrive and need shelter.”

“But you, Faramir, are you well?”

“I am so weary. I will probably have nightmares tonight.”

“I thought that weariness prevented dreams,” said Éowyn.

“So did I,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around her and relaxing further.

“Then you must rest and find more delegates to arrange lodgings for the visitors. Few men could reassure Aragorn’s doubters or design his coronation as well as you.”

“You speak wisdom,” Faramir sighed. “A pity. I like those visitors.”

Éowyn laughed fondly, then smiled as he leaned forward, letting her take more of his weight. She held him awhile, patting his back and stroking his dark hair, reluctant to break the spell. But it would not do to let him be late for his guests.

“Faramir,” she said at last, “Did I see you limping?”

“I thought I was being so subtle,” he mumbled into her hair. “I hurt my left knee on a stone.”

She frowned. “You fell down?”

“No, I stopped to help three men move a large slab of granite.” Faramir straightened with a sigh.  “I was still thinking about where to find space for a young family just come in from the banks of the Serith. I did not notice when the other men lifted the slab higher to pass a low wall; it slid toward me and struck just above my knee.”

“Did it draw blood?”

“I do not know. I dared not show the men that I was injured, nor even Thandil, for they would have blamed themselves. He had offered to help with the stone, but I did not allow him. I have sent him ahead to find water and clean clothes for me, while I secretly ask someone here to tend it.” Faramir looked at her hesitantly. “Will you do so yourself, or shall I ask one of the others?”

“I will,” she said, looking over his shoulder, “But one of your officers is looking for you.”

Faramir turned to see the approaching ranger halt and salute him. “Mablung,” he laughed, immediately embracing and kissing the man. “What are you doing here? Is Damrod still well?”

“Yes, but his leg would not thank him if he rode back here so soon. I left your rangers in his hands for three or four days. The King sent me to beg for more food.”

Faramir frowned in concern. “I hope those at Cormallen have enough for the next two days.”

“Aye, Captain, but we shall need three times that much before the end of the month.”

“Certainly. I will send the food with you tomorrow, but right now you must be hungry. I wish I could spend the evening with you, but I am obliged to dine with the nobility. Would you rather eat with Borlad here, or with the officers quartered in the City?”

“Borlad, if I may. Do you think he will be strong enough to join us tomorrow? He could ride in a wain.”

“I hope so. I will take you to him and ask the healers to send extra food.” As Faramir turned to go in, he caught sight of Éowyn standing behind him. “Éowyn, this is Mablung, one of my oldest comrades. I suppose you remember the story from my first patrol in Ithilien, when an Orc tried to use me as a shield?”

Éowyn smiled. “And Anborn felled it by shooting past your ear? I could never forget.”

Faramir smiled back. “While Anborn drew and aimed, the man farthest from him turned the Orc’s head by threatening to avenge any harm done to me. Mablung is the man who distracted the Orc.”

“An honor to meet you, Mablung,” said Éowyn, turning to the ranger with a smile. “I am obliged to you for repeatedly saving my husband-to-be.”

“Lady Wraithsbane,” he said, saluting her then bowing, “The honor is mine.”

“I had best take you to Borlad now,” Faramir said apologetically, “Or I shall be late to the daymeal.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“I will look for Bergil and meet you in my room,” Éowyn said to her betrothed.

After sending an errand-boy to order Mablung’s meal, Faramir led Mablung to the room where young Borlad had rested since Amlach carried him in, badly wounded, from the retreat. He was able to eat and sleep now, but still weak from a blow to the head.

Amlach answered Faramir’s knock. “Captain,” he greeted happily; then, seeing Mablung, “Lieutenant! Please, come in. Borlad, you have two important visitors!”

They entered to find the young man sitting straight up in bed, looking well enough to move to a chair, if there were a second one in the room. His face lit up at the sight of his captain and lieutenant.

“Borlad,” said Faramir, taking him by the shoulders and gently kissing his forehead. “How have you fared in the past four days?”

“Better, sir; I think I could ride. May I go to Cormallen with your next letter?”

“I will send a healer to assess you,” Faramir said, careful not to raise the lad’s hopes too soon. “But in case you are not ready, I have brought Mablung to tell you all the news.”

“Will you stay and eat with us, sir?” Borlad asked eagerly.

Faramir’s heart sank. He should have visited more often, but he had been too busy to find leisure time for anyone but Éowyn. Perhaps he should leave others to find housing for all the visitors. “I wish I could,” he said, “But I am about to host a meal for several noble families.”

Borlad looked doubtfully at his captain’s dirty clothes.

“After changing clothes, of course.”

Mablung laughed, and the other two joined in. “By all means, do not let us detain you,” said the first. “We will keep each other company.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said, trying to hide his regret at leaving so soon. He ducked out and hurried toward Éowyn’s room.

He had not gone twenty paces before Mablung pursued him with the King’s letter, which both had somehow forgotten. Considerably cheered, Faramir hurried on, pausing only when he met Warden Curu.

The old man looked him over shrewdly. “Lord Faramir, are you hurt?”

“I hit myself in the leg with a heavy stone, but the Lady Éowyn will tend it.”

“Then I shall not worry.”

“But I have one question for you,” said Faramir. “Borlad has a chance to go to Ithilien by wain and boat tomorrow. Do you think he is strong enough yet?”

“I will check on him later tonight.”

“Thank you.” Faramir nodded to his friend and continued on his way.

“Mablung gave me another letter from Aragorn,” said Faramir, already breaking the seal as Éowyn let him into her room.

She laughed. “If we are in danger of keeping the nobles waiting, why are you opening it now?”

“Because they wish to know whether I would remain Steward after the coronation. I asked him, and I would like to give them his answer tonight if possible. Good evening, Bergil.”

“Then you may read while I sew you up,” Éowyn said, shooing him in and shutting the door.

“If I needed stitches, the blood would have soaked through my clothes by now,” Faramir replied absently as he sat in the chair she indicated, already scanning the letter. “Yes!” he cried.

“What is it?”

“That is a great deal of responsibility for a parent,” Faramir muttered, still reading silently.

“For the twenty-eighth time, darling, speak plainly.”

“He plans to keep me as his Steward,” Faramir finally explained, “But also to make the position hereditary. I will have to train my heirs to be responsible and loyal to their king and country.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “You will? What a surprise.”

“I would have in any case, of course, but this raises the stakes.”

“Be that as it may,” said Éowyn, sitting on Meriadoc’s little chair opposite him, “I would be grateful if you will show me the damage and then read your letter aloud.”

“Gladly.” Faramir untucked his trouser leg from his boot and pulled it above his knee. “See? I thought it was only an abrasion.”

“An abrasion with an impressive bruise.”

He cleared his throat and began to read.

Gwirith 21, Year 3019

Cormallen

Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Elessar

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

I did not expect that to sting.

“Sir?” said Bergil, when Faramir paused. “What did he not expect to sting?”

“That part was not in the letter,” Faramir explained. “I did not expect the water to sting my leg.”

“This is alcohol,” Éowyn informed him. “What did you say earlier about this ‘mere abrasion’?”

“I was contrasting it with a wound, not with other abrasions,” Faramir countered.

“Fair point. Now, what did Aragorn really write?”

Greetings.

The Hobbits are recovering apace. Gimli has his hands full convincing Pippin to rest at all—the rest of us have given up, even Merry. Samwise insists on cooking for us daily now, and sends you his compliments on the well-stocked wild herb patches of Ithilien. He is very happy, and Frodo seems content. His hand is almost completely healed now.

As to your position, I will need your knowledge and support to rule Gondor well. You may tell those who wish to know that I certainly plan to keep you as my Steward—you and your heirs, for I will make your office hereditary, even as the kingship is. This will also give the Stewards more freedom to disagree with the King’s council when needed, as their positions will not depend on his whims.

“He has a point,” said Éowyn, busy applying balm to the bruise. “This will lower the stakes for his own parenting.”

Moreover, your family has held Gondor for a thousand years. I would not have you lowered when you cede its lordship to me; I would like to make you a prince, as your kinsman Imrahil is. Emyn Arnen in Ithilien was your ancestral territory, and that land has not been settled for some years. I will make Ithilien your princedom, if it fits in the plans you have made with Éowyn.

“Prince of Ithilien,” Faramir breathed, looking at Éowyn with tears in his eyes.

Smiling, she rose, leaned down, and kissed him briefly. “It fits very well.”

Faramir shook his head in wonder. “We shall be free to restore all of Ithilien.”

As Éowyn turned to set down the balm and alcohol, she noticed Bergil staring at Faramir in open-mouthed elation. “Is the news public yet, Lord Steward?” she asked pointedly.

“I do not think so,” said Faramir, overcoming his own awe with some effort. “Bergil, I will trust you not to mention the King’s plans to anyone until the news is out.”

The boy sighed but lifted his chin with proud resolve. “You can trust me, sir.”

“I am grateful,” said Faramir, smiling at him.

“What else does the King write?” Éowyn asked, and Faramir read on.

I am glad that you plan to crown me publicly outside the Great Gate, as I would prefer to be officially accepted before I enter the City. But I have belatedly realized that I do not know exactly whose acceptance I need. The Steward alone was responsible to accept a returning king, but I have never ruled in Gondor before. Is your acceptance still sufficient, or must all the lords agree before I enter? You also mentioned wanting as many of the common people in attendance as possible. Are you thinking of putting it to a general vote of the populace? I am amenable to that, if you think it wise.

The food you have sent so far will carry us through the 26 th of the month. Due to the size of the crowd gathered here and the improving appetites of our wounded, we will need a little more to eat before we set out for the City. We have at times supplemented what you sent with fresh game, but the hunting is growing sparse near Cormallen, and I am loth to threaten your wild goat or deer population. Can you afford four more days’ supply of bread for ten thousand men?

I have sent this letter with Mablung, because he longs to see you. Although he assures me that his lieutenants are capable, I doubt that he would have left his charge without my orders. Farewell.

“And now you had better change into acceptable clothes before giving the good news to the nobles.”

“Certainly,” said Faramir, tucking his trousers back into his boot. “Let us go to the White Tower now—unless you will be ashamed to be seen with me?”

“Not at all,” Éowyn laughed, taking his arm. “My brother has come to table looking worse.”

Bergil ran to open the door for them, a very thoughtful look on his young face.

“What is it, Bergil?” Faramir asked, pausing in the doorway.

“If you tell the nobles, sir, then will the news be out this evening?”

Faramir leaned down to whisper to him. “I must tell the nobles that I will continue as Steward, for they are anxious about that. But I shall not tell them about the King’s plans for my princedom until he does. But I am only telling the nobles; if you notice anyone anxious about my future, you may mention that the King will keep me as Steward, but please keep the rest secret.”

“Yes, sir.”

Faramir and Éowyn met Angbor the Fearless in the entrance hallway of the White Tower. Today, a very beautiful woman walked at his side, tall and elegant with ivory features and black hair barely dusted with silver. She looked younger than Angbor, but if she was indeed Faramir’s aunt, then she must be a few years older, nearly as old as Théoden. Éowyn sensed Faramir’s dread when he saw her.

“Aunt Ivriniel,” he said, starting toward her. “Welcome to Minas Anor.”

“I see that you have been busy,” she said, glancing over his dusty attire. “Are you well, Faramir? 

“I am, but rather dirty. Perhaps I should wash before I kiss you.”

In answer, the lady tipped his face down and kissed his brow. “It is a balm to my heart to see you safe and sound. I will not prevent you from washing before the daymeal. But first, I suppose this is your White Lady?”

Faramir laughed. “Has the news reached Ringló Vale already?”

“The news of her valor has, but I only learned of your relationship from my husband when I arrived.” She smiled at Éowyn, though without losing any poise.

“Your guess is true,” Faramir said. “This is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, bane of the Dark Captain, who has agreed to be my wife.”

“I have agreed to be his wife,” Éowyn clarified mischievously. “That creature never considered any such arrangement.” Seeing Faramir’s mortified blush, she regretted her jest, but something about the other lady’s manner made her rebellious—she needed to prove that she was not trapped within the walls of propriety.

“Of course,” Faramir muttered, still blushing, “Because I have taste.”

Lord Angbor laughed a deep, booming laugh, and his wife actually giggled. Éowyn felt the walls open around her again.

“Éowyn,” Faramir continued dutifully, “This is my mother’s older sister, Lady Ivriniel, wife of Lord Angbor and mother of Lord Dervorin.”

“An honor to meet you, Lady Éowyn,” said Faramir’s aunt, curtsying. “We will entertain her while you change, Faramir.”

“Much obliged,” Faramir said, and with a last quick smile of relief, hurried down the hallway.

Chapter Text

It was late when Gimli convinced the Hobbits to seek their beds. Tomorrow, April 25, would mark one month since the Downfall—not of Númenor, but of her greatest enemy. Aragorn found it hard to believe that exactly one month had passed; the time seemed to have flown since, and yet he felt as if an age had passed, so changed was the world and his own lot.

As he approached his own tent, he heard the sound of hooves.

“Sire?” the rider called. Aragorn recognized the voice of Faramir’s depute captain, who had carried his most recent letter.

He turned to greet the ranger. “Mablung, you have returned swiftly. Is all well?”

Mablung dismounted. “All is well, lord. Lord Faramir has sent us more food. I came ahead to send for wagons to bring it from Cair Andros in the morning. Also, he has written to you.”

Aragorn accepted the letter. “Thank you. I will give orders for the wagons in the morning. We are not in need yet. Can I offer you a drink, or call someone to tend your horse?”

“Please do not wake your men for me, sire. With your leave, I will take him to the others of my company. They will wish to know that Borlad is finally well enough to return to them.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, smiling.

When Mablung departed, he entered his dark tent. For once, he set the letter beside his pillow and went straight to sleep.

After joining the Hobbits for the sunrise and first breakfast, Aragorn read the letter aloud to Prince Imrahil, who had visited him in hopes of hearing it.

23 Gwirith, Year 3019

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

To Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Heir of Elendil,

Greetings. I am heartily glad to hear that our dear Hobbits feel so well, and that the wild herbs of Ithilien please Master Samwise. I have loved that land since my youth, and I confess that I wept for joy at your offer to make it my princedom. Lady Éowyn also approves of the arrangement; we had planned to make our home in Ithilien from the outset. I am likewise honored to begin the line of your Stewards. You are very generous with me, and the other lords and ladies are comforted to hear that my position will be hereditary.

I have not yet spread this news to the common people (although it may leak) for I should like them to hear it from you at your coronation. I say this because, although I approve the wisdom of making the Stewardship hereditary, such a move will only increase the need to make a clean break between the old Ruling Stewardship and the Stewards to the Kings. Only the former has ever inherited independent of the King’s choice. At worst, the assumption might arise that the position of your heirs depends on the continued approval of mine. To prevent this, I propose that when I first meet you at your coronation, I kneel and relinquish the White Rod. After you have taken it, so ending the office of the Ruling Stewards, you may reinstate me as your Steward. It will then be plain to all that your office can no longer depend on my will, for mine was given me by you.

You asked whose approval is needed to make you king. According to the precedent set by the case of your ancestor Arvedui, the Council is responsible to decide who will reign in a succession crisis, but the Steward’s influence is powerful.

Aragorn paused to read the last sentence over carefully, then looked up in confusion as he heard Imrahil snicker. It was not a sound one expected from so calm and dignified a lord.

“Faramir delights in such arguments,” the Prince explained. “Using your ancestor’s defeat to prove your impending victory: how me must have smiled as he penned such a subtle inversion!”

Assured that Faramir had in fact written what he thought, Aragorn read on.

All members of the Council are now present in the City, save the most powerful, my kinsman Imrahil, whom I know to be loyal to you. Almost all of the others are either eager to accept you or resigned to your lordship. Your claim will be accepted by the Council.

I had not thought to let the people vote, but I am glad that you mentioned it, for it is a wise suggestion. Although we will also need the support of the Council, a unanimous vote of confidence from the crowd will show any who still wish to oppose you that they fight a losing battle.

I am grateful for your kindness in sending Mablung to me: I believe we were both comforted to see each other hale and whole. I have sent him back, with the supplies you requested, and the clothes which you asked about a week ago. Two more of my rangers will ride with the supplies: Borlad is now healed enough to travel by wain or boat, and Amlach, whom you sent as messenger with that letter, accompanies him.

I must apologize for my late reply to your question about boots and clothing. I had decided what to send, but it slipped my mind until just now. I think that black would set off the Elessar and my brother’s mantle to best advantage. It is now altered to your size, but Lady Morwen has begun to cover the resulting seams with the White Tree and Seven Stars. She promises that it will be finished within five days. I may be forced to send it while you are travelling, but it will be ready before your coronation.

However, there seems to be a slight misunderstanding regarding the ceremony. It is not my place to set the crown on your head. In ancient times, the new King, if his father could not give him the crown, would set it on his own head. In your case, I will bring the crown to you before the Gate—probably in the casket where it has rested these many years, in honor of its history. If we adhere to tradition as much as possible, you will take it out and crown yourself. I am happy to discuss this matter further if you have other preferences, but if I were to crown you, my authority would look higher than yours. I would not risk such an outcome, for I hope that you and your heirs will rule Gondor through the next age of the world.

I am counting the days until your return. Please greet the Hobbits for me, and ask them and your other companions what housing arrangements they would prefer upon their arrival. Farewell.

Aragorn turned to Imrahil questioningly.

“His concerns about crowning you are justified,” the Prince answered. “Such has never been our custom in Gondor, and to do so now would assign too much authority to your Steward.”

“And yet your custom was that the King should receive his crown from the previous ruler. Is not Faramir the previous ruler?”

“He is,” Imrahil admitted, looking surprised. “Still, if I am not mistaken, a dying King would only give his crown to his heir; the heir would set it on his own head.”

Aragorn sighed, considering this news. “I am grateful for your counsel. I shall give thought to it.”

Chapter Text

Éowyn leaned on the rampart, still warm with the memory of sunshine, gazing out across the Anduin valley. The evening shadow of Mindolluin stretched out jaggedly, falling short just before the river, now a torrent of flaming gold. Even Mordor was bathed in the glow of sunset.

“Éowyn,” Faramir’s voice called, soft and warm and full with love.

She turned to see him climbing the stairs to the top of the wall, carefully but without limping.

“I am glad that your knee is healed enough to walk with me again,” said Éowyn, slipping her hand into his.

Faramir smiled at her. “So am I, beloved.”

For one long moment, Éowyn lost herself in his warm, adoring eyes—then she turned resolutely away. “However,” she continued with a frown, “I am also glad that it slowed you for a few days. Without such an injury, you might never have given up direct oversight of housing the visitors.”

Faramir laughed and kissed her brow.

Éowyn’s resolution dissolved. She paused and turned, tipping her face up with a smile. Their lips met, his hands gentle on her back, and she melted into his embrace. One long, sweet moment passed, then he reluctantly raised his head. She reached up, still enfolded in his arms, and cupped his face between her hands. Above his ink-black beard, he could almost have been chiseled from marble—but he had tanned a little since their first meeting, he was blushing at the moment, and he was alive. “You are so beautiful, Faramir,” she murmured.

He sighed softly and lowered his forehead to rest against hers.

Someone on the level below cheered.

Éowyn smiled. “Are you not concerned, Lord Steward?”

Faramir lifted his head. “It will raise morale,” he whispered, winking at her.

She laughed. “What news of the City?”

“The visitors have all found housing so far, thanks to Lieutenant Beren.”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose. “Beren?” The day before her brother and Aragorn left for the Black Gate, the man had put his heavily bandaged head in her window, apparently under the false impression that she would be happy to see him. She had been shocked, a few days later, to learn that Faramir claimed him as a friend—and that his father was from Rohan.

“He has no reverence, I know,” said Faramir, “But he has a great deal of skill in finding solutions.”

“Hmph.”

“You may be interested to know that I have a letter from the King. I believe his manners compare favorably to Beren’s?”

“Indeed, they are quite the opposite—Aragorn is certainly no flirt. You must read it to me at once before the light goes.”

“Of course, my lady,” Faramir replied, suppressing a smile as he opened the letter.

25 Gwirith, 3019

Cormallen

Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Elessar,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings, from myself, Mithrandir, the Prince, and all four of the Hobbits.

We are all well. The Hobbits, along with Mithrandir, Gimli, and Legolas, wish to stay in one house, if that can be arranged, or at least near each other. I will stay wherever you think best.

As you suggest, I shall accept the Rod from you and grant the Stewardship to you and your heirs before all the people. It is a wise plan, which honors both of us. I am glad to hear that the promise of establishing your line as Stewards has reassured the other lords, and more so that the princedom of Ithilien brings you such joy. You deserve a reward. Mithrandir and all the Hobbits have spoken very well of you.

I am grateful for your concern not to undermine my authority, and shall not ask you to crown me. Still, to set the crown on my own head seems vain, for I would never have come to this day without the valor of many others. If Mithrandir were to crown me, after Frodo brings the crown to him, would this raise any concerns? I could explain my reason to those assembled, if that will help. Éomer, the Prince, and I deferred to Mithrandir during the last days of the war, but he will not linger here much longer. I think the nature of his authority is right to crown me without ill effect, although he is not a lord of Gondor, or indeed of any Dúnedain. What is your counsel in this?

Faramir paused, and Éowyn looked up to see a smile growing on his face.

“You approve his suggestion?”

“Yes, but more than that I approve his motive. He is a better man even than I thought.”

Mablung brought me your letter last night, but I have waited to send my reply until I could assure you that the food has arrived safely and is sufficient for our needs until the coronation. Your other two men also arrived safely. I have looked at Borlad’s hurts, and advised him to rest until we set out toward the City. He has had a lucky escape, but I believe that he will recover fully in time.

“I am so glad that Borlad will recover,” Faramir murmured. “He is barely twenty, and Eradan tells me that he nearly slipped away several times.”

“Escaped from the healers, or died?”

“The latter—he was in no condition to flee.” Faramir resumed reading.

We plan to cross at Cair Andros on Gwirith 28, then march at an easy pace for the next two days, camping within a walk of the Gates the last evening of Gwirith. How far exactly would you suggest?

I thank you for the black boots and clothing, and for the diligence in other matters which caused you to forget the matter for a few days. The delay did no harm. Please thank Lady Morwen for her kindness, and give my condolences to her family for the loss of their sons.

We have all that we need, and I trust that you have also kept the City well-supplied. But your uncle would remind you to share your work with those who are there to help you. I fully concur: your help is invaluable, but do not put hardship upon yourself. This spring is one of the most beautiful in my memory. I hope that you have found time to enjoy the weather. Farewell.

“I am so glad,” Éowyn remarked, “That you are following his orders. You must walk with me in the gardens again at dawn; it would not do to risk your King’s wrath.”

Faramir threw back his head and laughed. “I am more concerned about risking yours, my fierce healer.”

Chapter Text

Aragorn was sitting with Frodo, waiting for the last few boat loads of soldiers to finish crossing the Anduin, when the messenger arrived with Faramir’s next letter. Noon had already passed; some of the boats at Cair Andros had been damaged in the battles, and it always took eight thousand men quite some time to cross a river. In fact, the first group had crossed and settled in to wait five hours ago, giving Sam ample time to cook a delicious stew from the coneys Legolas shot. Sam was now at the riverside, washing the dishes with the Elf’s help; Aragorn had promised to watch over Frodo in the mean time.

After directing one of his men to make the messenger comfortable, Aragorn sat down with Frodo.

“Another letter from Faramir?” the Hobbit asked. “Has he sent Boromir’s mantle as well?”

“I think so. Would you like to hear it?”

Frodo smiled. “I would, thank you.”

Aragorn opened the letter and began to read aloud.

27 Gwirith, Year 3019

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

To Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Heir of Elendil,

Greetings. I am glad to hear that all of you are well. Please return my greetings to my uncle and the Hobbits; I am writing separately to Mithrandir.

My father taught me that the seventh floor of the Tower was, in ancient times, inhabited by the royal family. My family has lived on the sixth floor for many centuries. We have kept the seventh clean and in good condition, and I have ordered it prepared for you. I believe we shall be able to find one house for the rest of your company to live in. If you would rather stay with them, or they with you, that can be arranged; although your guards will need to be near you, which makes the Tower more convenient.

I am very happy to include the Ringbearer in the ceremony. I think that Mithrandir could crown you without ill effect, if the Steward first presented the crown to you. Your humility in refusing to crown yourself will likely amaze the people; but I approve heartily. However, to avoid any appearance of indecision, I think it prudent that you should, in some fashion, openly accept the crown before asking another to crown you.

I have now convinced the rest of the lords of Gondor to submit to your rule.

Lady Morwen and her daughter have finished the alterations for your mantle. I have sent it along with this letter. If any further changes are needed, please send it back as soon as possible.

I thank you for your care for Borlad. Your concern for my health is kind, but I assure you that I am very well now. I have, however, frequently walked with the Lady Éowyn in the cool of the morning and evening. You may assure my dear uncle that she has convinced me to delegate more of my responsibilities. I wish you and all those with you a safe journey. Please greet the Hobbits for me. We are eager to see you all. Farewell.

Frodo looked at the bundle containing Boromir’s old mantle. “We had better wait to open it until the others are gathered. But I suppose, if he has given you his brother’s mantle, he must really love you as much as he seems to?”

“I believe so. Why do you ask?”

Frodo blushed and looked awkward. “I have no reason to doubt him; only, when I first mentioned your existence, he seemed reluctant to believe me. Then again, he said something afterward about ‘speaking cautiously before his men,’ and I am not certain which part of our conversation he meant. But then, he did not express reluctance exactly; more like caution, that your claim would have to be proven. Perhaps he considered his own healing sufficient proof. Merry told me that the people were excited about an old saying, the king’s hands bring healing or something to that effect.”

“I believe he did consider that proof sufficient,” Aragorn replied. “But do not feel bad for wondering; Elrohir cautioned me as well, several weeks ago. Faramir could reasonably act like this for other reasons than true devotion. Perhaps he thinks that he cannot prevent my becoming king, and simply makes the best of his circumstances. Perhaps he thinks he could prevent it, but only by a civil war, and does not wish for more killing. I think he knows that, without his enthusiastic approval, a few of the other lords might not accept me at all; but I also believe that he does, somehow, love me as much as he seems to. Political motives could drive him to put on the mask of devotion after taking time to plan, but I do not see how he had that time before I drew him out of the Shadow. He took to me instantly, even recognizing my lineage.”

“I am glad,” said Frodo. “I had been a little worried, after our first meeting, that he might be suspicious of you. It would have been a shame; you are both so honorable and kind and strong.”

“I do not understand how he made his decision so quickly,” said Aragorn, “But he has, and I am grateful. If the Steward refused me, I would not press my claim, at least not by force.” Fortunately, he caught himself before telling Frodo about Arwen.

Chapter Text

Faramir had given Éowyn a new gown for the coronation. Everything she had worn since her reluctant awakening in the Houses of Healing was either borrowed, and too simple to suit the occasion, or a gift from the wardrobe of Finduílas. Faramir said that she should have something truly her own to wear for the coronation.

It was not given as a surprise; in fact, he made no decisions about its design, whether style, fabric, or color. He had simply found her a good dressmaker and told her that she might choose herself what she would like to wear. Some might have called such an approach thoughtless, but in this case, it was quite the opposite. Faramir knew exactly what she needed: freedom over herself. The gown was not a surprise to Éowyn, but it was certainly a surprise to Faramir when her maid let him into her room at mid-afternoon on April 29.

“What brings you here?” she asked, turning from her looking-glass to face him.

“Aragorn’s reply has arrived already,” he answered excitedly, eyes fixed on the note in his hands. “It must have been written only yesterday, for mine cannot have reached him sooner. He is drawing nearer—Oh!” He had finally glanced up at her, and for a moment had no more words.

“I am glad that it brought you here just now,” Éowyn giggled, “For if you had seen me in this for the first time on the morning of the ceremony, you might have lost your wits and offered the crown to me by mistake.”

“Indeed,” Faramir laughed, the letter waiting forgotten in his hand. “You look—” he fell silent again, his eyes running over the elegant green and white gown in unbridled admiration.

“No need for words,” Éowyn replied. “I see your meaning. Please take a seat, and let us find out how Aragorn has taken your refusal to crown him.”

“As you wish.” Smiling, Faramir lifted his left hand, frowning when he found it empty, before locating the letter in his right. After sitting down, he opened it and began to read.

28 Gwirith, 3019

Anorien, near Andros

Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Elessar,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings. I have greeted your kinsman and the Hobbits for you, and all my companions send you their greetings, and compliments on the beauty of the mantle. It now fits me very well. Please thank Lady Morwen and her daughter again for their generosity, and tell them that the designs of the Tree and Stars at the shoulders are beautiful.

In that case, I will stay in the rooms traditionally assigned to the King. I believe my companions would be happiest with the freedom of a house outside the Tower, preferably one close enough for visiting.

I am willing to accept the crown before it is set on my head. Your authority should also be recognized; are you willing to take the crown from its casket and present it to me?

Do you wish me to use certain words as I do? If so, I will use them. If not, I have one idea, and I shall send it now, as time for writing grows short. The lore of my longfathers tells that when Elendil landed on the shores of Middle-earth, borne by a storm from the Downfall, he said these words:

'Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!'

Faramir paused, his lips parted in astonishment before curving into a slow smile. “Aragorn knows the words of Elendil!” he exclaimed.

“Is it a rare piece of knowledge, then?” Éowyn asked.

“My father, and I think many of the lore-masters of Gondor, knew it,” he replied. “I should have known that the heirs of Isildur, close as they are with Elrond Halfelven, would likewise remember it.” He grinned and shook his head, eyes dancing. “Ai, Maglor! This is too much excitement for one afternoon.”

“Maglor?” Éowyn repeated. “Was he the repentant murderer who wandered the shore for thousands of years singing sad songs?”

“Sad songs, and songs of history, which are not much different where the Elder Days are concerned. Pardon my language, dear Lady; I have taken to swearing by Maglor when I unexpectedly come across some particularly exhilarating item of lore.”

“That seems fitting. What do the words of Elendil mean?”

Faramir looked guilty. “In the Common Tongue, the Et Eärello means, ‘Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.’”

“He has not just come out of the Great Sea,” Éowyn mused, “Although he does plan to abide here with his heirs. But no matter,” she concluded with a smile. “I suppose most of the crowd will not know the meaning of his words; only great lore-masters like you will receive the full benefit.”

Faramir laughed. “Perhaps; but I hope that many who do not know the translation will nonetheless apprehend its deeper meaning.” He noticed her narrowed eyes. “Which is, to speak plainly, his connection to Elendil.”

“I see. Are you calm enough to read on, or shall we ask your esquire’s help?”

Faramir laughed again. “I believe I can read.”

If you approve, I will take the crown from your hands and accept it with these words, or others of your suggestion; then, giving it back to you, ask Frodo and Gandalf to crown me.

“How could I not approve?” Faramir muttered, still smiling uncontrollably.

I write this two hours after noon. All of the company has now crossed Anduin, and we will march for a few more hours before camping. We hope to reach the Causeway Forts by tomorrow night, then march to our final camp on the last morning of Gwirith. Shall we camp where the road from Osgiliath meets the Great West Road? How early do you wish us to arrive at the Gate, and how far from it shall we halt? If you will, please also write me a schedule of the coronation in order, for I do not wish to forget anything.

We are eager to see you again, especially the Hobbits. Mithrandir has been acting amazingly joyful, and I wonder whether he is happier for me or for you. Farewell.

Faramir frowned, glancing at the second-to-last paragraph. “Did I forget to tell him where to camp in my previous letter?”

“Perhaps he missed your answer,” Éowyn suggested.

“No, I am certain I did not decide what to tell him. Let me think… We will need room for a march toward the City to symbolize his arrival. Not a long march, however: everyone will be dressed in full regalia, and the spring has grown warm already.”

“I should think he will arrival in truth. Why must the event be represented by a symbol?”

“He will arrive,” Faramir replied, looking concerned, “But such things must be clearly visible as well as true. If he arrived at our very doorstep tomorrow evening, it would throw off the timing.”

Éowyn laughed and kissed his cheek. “I am teasing you, Faramir.”

He smiled. “And I really must find the right words to praise your gown.”

Chapter Text

Aragorn woke the morning before his coronation to the news that another messenger from the City had arrived after midnight. The sentries on duty had found him food, drink, and a bed. He was now awake and breakfasting by the fire with several of the Grey Company. Aragorn joined them, feeling slightly nostalgic; he would soon be a king, with all the luxuries and restrictions of the office.

“Hail, lord Elessar,” said the errand-rider, rising and pulling something from his pouch. He knelt and offered it to Aragorn. “A letter from the Lord Steward. He sends his greetings.”

Aragorn took the letter with a smile. “Thank you. Please, return to your meal.”

The errand-rider saluted him, but did not resume his place until Aragorn turned away. The king sighed; perhaps he would be able to eat casually with his men after the man returned to the City with his reply. He sat down on the east side of his tent to read Faramir’s letter. It had been sent by night, which made Aragorn wonder if it were urgent. Very little time remained for correspondence, and he dared not waste it.

29 Gwirith, Year 3019

Tower of Ecthelion

Faramir son of Denethor,

Last Ruling Steward of Gondor,

To Aragorn son of Arathorn,

Heir of Elendil,

Greetings. I can think of no better words with which to reunite the kingdom of Elendil, than Elendil’s words when he first landed on Middle-earth. My family remembers them still, and it brings me joy to see that the lore of your people is also well-kept.

A memory of the officious herb-master of the Houses of Healing intruded at this moment, and Aragorn was obliged to laugh before reading the next sentence.

I am willing to set the crown in your hands, as you ask.

Please camp well on the near side of the Great West Road, within a mile or two of the City, if you will. I would not have you march for an hour or more before the ceremony. I would advise that it be held in the morning: the second hour, if it pleases you. That will leave ample time for you to process up the City without hurry, then for the lords to sweater allegiance to you, while the others are settled into their new quarters, before the feast. I have set men to find lodgings for eight thousand additional men, though some may need to set up their tents where houses have been leveled in the First Circle. The City is now full of women and children, and we are ready to welcome you.

We will sound trumpets when you and your army are to approach. Please leave one furlong open before the Gate. I and those with me will then come out, and I will bend my knee before you and give up the White Rod. After you reinstate me and my heirs as Stewards to your line, I will present you to the people as an heir coming to claim the Kingship. When they vote to accept you, I shall announce the Crown, which will be brought out in its casket, and present it to you. You will accept it, with the words of Elendil, then I will hold it while you announce those who will crown you. When you have been crowned, we will enter the City, walking slowly up the seven levels, that all the people may see you as you pass. When we reach the Citadel, you may sit on your throne in the Hall of Pillars, and the lords of Gondor will swear allegiance. The Merethrond will be made ready for the feast afterward.

We have been kingless for a thousand years. My fathers have done their best to care for Gondor, but without your aid we would have been destroyed last month. You are our hope and healer. From childhood, I have dreamed of a king who would restore Gondor; but my mind told me that none would now come, and my eyes told me that Gondor was dying. Your appearance has overturned the latter belief as surely as the former. An age is ending, but another is beginning, one full of hope instead of terror. I can hardly believe that I have only one day to wait for your coming. Fare well, my lord!

Faramir must have sent it post-haste because he knew that Aragorn’s host needed to know where to end today’s march. It did not require a swift answer, but thanks were in order. Aragorn went in search of paper and ink to scratch out a brief reply before taking his own breakfast… or his first breakfast, if the Hobbits had their way!

Chapter Text

There is a time for delegating most of one’s executive tasks to leave time for making good decisions, and there is a time for throwing all caution to the wind and abandoning the Tower to run through every level of the City seeing that the flags are hung straight, the musicians are ready, the guards know how far back to hold the excited throng, lodgings for eight thousand additional men are available, the King’s office is in order, the food and flowers have arrived, and a thousand other delightful details. The day before the King’s return is one of the latter times.

Admittedly, Faramir felt slightly guilty when he learned, late that night, that a messenger from the King had come looking for him at noon; and, because no one could keep track of the Steward’s whereabouts that day, had been forced to leave the last letter on his desk. It was too late for Faramir to apologize: after his invaluable servants had given the messenger a good meal, the man had ridden back to the King’s host. At least, if the letter had been urgent, he would have waited for a response.

Faramir snatched the letter from his dark office and practically ran up the five flights of stairs to his chambers. The candles were lit, but he would be blessedly alone there; Thandil, exhausted from trying to keep up with his lord all day, was off duty until early the next morning.

Winded from his climb, Faramir sank into a chair and shut his eyes, breathing slowly in an attempt to calm himself. It was no use; his body and mind might be worn out, but his heart still soared above the highest pinnacle of Mount Everwhite with joy. Or rather, above the peaks of the White Mountains; his anticipation of local events left little room for thoughts of places beyond Elvenhome.

Still leaning back comfortably, Faramir opened the letter and began to read as quickly as possible in the dim light.

30 Gwirith, 3019

Causeway Forts

Aragorn Elessar,

Heir of Elendil,

To Faramir son of Denethor,

Steward of Gondor,

Greetings.

First, I thank you for the schedule you sent me. I have no objections to approaching at the second hour of the morning. I am grateful also for your kindness in asking us to camp close to the City; we shall end this morning’s march between one and two miles from the Gates. We entered the Pelennor after dark last night. When the sun rose, I was amazed to see how much the farms have recovered in the past six weeks. The credit for this must be due both to your people and to the forces of nature. I have seen many a former battle-ground turn from red to green and teem with life once more, but I wonder at it every time.

I would like to thank you once more, Lord Faramir, for welcoming me with open arms. I knew how controversial my claim would be, given the relevant history. Without your whole-hearted support, I am uncertain whether the Council would have accepted me. I have also dreamed, since the day I learned my lineage, of helping to restore Gondor, but often doubted whether I would be allowed to do so as King. I owe you the fulfillment of this wish.

The Hobbits would no doubt add their greetings to mine, if they were abroad already; but our march yesterday was long, and I am not rushing them to begin today’s. We all remain well, and look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Frodo and Samwise have not yet seen the White City, and are eager to judge whether the reports of their friends are exaggerated or insufficient. Fare well.

No questions, only gratitude; all was ready, then. Faramir rose and moved to the window, leaning on the sill. Below him, lamps and torches still dotted the City, as numerous as the Mettarë fires, if not as large. Laughter and song floated up to his window on the night breeze. It seemed he was not the only resident unable to sleep for anticipation.

“I think you would have won without me,” he murmured, smiling. “But I am glad to ease your path.”