One fleeting meeting

Time stretched slowly, even as if it were frozen. The bell on the tower tolled, cutting off the first hour of the new day, a sound that snapped Aragorn out of his heavy thoughts. It seemed to him that it was past midnight when he entered the tombs, had it really been so little time? His fatigue was taking its toll, and he fell into a slumber full of vague, disturbing dreams, then came to his senses and spoke to Ecthelion again in his mind. Aragorn sat on the floor by the stone table with his back against the cold marble and his tired legs stretched out. More than his body, he was weary at heart, and he found no comfort - the best cure for such an ailment was friendly conversation, and Aragorn had no friends left here. He thought so. The scrap of another dream dispersed a soldier in the robes of a White Tower guard. He shook Aragorn by the shoulder and called out. ‘Thorongil! Wake up.’ Aragorn looked up slowly, looking down at the guard tiredly, thinking that Denethor must have run out of patience, and now the intruder would be thrown out, if not worse. But he didn't even have the energy to worry about it, and the thought didn't bring any sadness or longing. ‘Get up. You are to be escorted to the chambers.’ Here was where Aragorn found the strength to be surprised. He stood up as Denethor had just recently swayed, grasped the edge of the table. He cast a parting glance at Ecthelion, leaned toward him, and touched his lips to the knuckles of the knotted fingers gripping the hilt of his sword. He said nothing aloud, but apologized, one last time. A guard led Aragorn out of the tombs. On the steps by the door, Aragorn saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Immediately after he left, the shadow separated from the darkness of the night and became Lord Denethor, clothed in black robes and impenetrable grief. With a glance, he entered the tomb again and closed the doors behind him. Aragorn was led to the servants' and soldiers' quarters on the west side of the Steward's House. There were dozens of cells in the narrow alleyway, the farthest one was for Thorongil. ‘Is there anything else you need?’ The guard asked. Aragorn looked around the room. The bed was already made, and someone had even brought hot water. And on the window sill by the small window there was bread, a little butter, cheese and boiled eggs in a large wooden bowl under a handkerchief. ‘No, everything is fine,’ Aragorn replied with a smile. He knew to whom he owed this warm welcome. ‘Here, you are also to receive this.’ The guard handed Aragorn a bundle containing pants, a shirt, and a tunic. His pants and tunic were thick black, like the guards', but without the silver tree and stars. Denethor probably thought it too much of a favour to give a tramp a coat of arms. Aragorn accepted the gift and thanked him. He did not lock the door after the guards had left. The window and door faced west, where the clouds of Mordor did not cover the sky, where silver clouds floated and the bright moon was visible. After washing and snacking, Aragorn flopped down on his bed, lay back and looked up at the stars. Their light was bright and stubborn; against the darkness, the winds, the thunderstorms, they sent their rays to the earth to prevent the living from despairing. Aragorn fell asleep, quietly and soundly. He was awakened by indistinct conversations, shrieks, muffled laughter, and banging. The sun had just risen, but it was late in winter, and it was past nine o'clock. Aragorn felt sleep-deprived, which was not unreasonable, but quite rested. Sleeping under a roof in the home of good friends was much more pleasant and restful than sleeping in the open air on the steppes of Mordor. Aragorn stretched sweetly in bed, trying to remember the last time he had slept in a bed. He couldn't remember. The voices sounded very close, as if from behind a wall. And one of the voices belonged to a child. The only child of such a talkative age who could be within the walls of the House of Stewards was Boromir. And Aragorn longed to look at him. After changing his clothes, he gathered his things, girded himself with the sword and packed his travelling bag. There was no reason to linger in the city, and he didn't want to be seen by Denethor and tempt his fate. But curiosity was stronger than caution. After standing at the wall of the barracks alley and listening to the conversations, Aragorn did not look for a way around, but climbed up the old masonry and jumped down on the other side. And beyond the wall was a small garden. The roses were still blooming, forgotten or not trimmed, the leaves crumbling from the cold, the bright buds frosted, but still blooming. In the middle was a small-paved area surrounded by a high wall of evergreen ivy and moss. In the corner was the bowl of a fountain, icy and silent. A training dummy’s pole was stuck in the ground, and a boy with a wooden sword was twirling around it. The dummy followed him around, waving his arms and fighting back every now and then. There was a low porch and a wide terrace overlooking the grounds. Lady Finduilas watched her son from the terrace, wrapped in a warm cloak and glancing from time to time into the rooms. She was now torn between two boys. Aragorn crept along the rose bushes and swept almost silently over the porch rail. When he suddenly appeared on the terrace, the lady clutched her heart and sighed sharply, froze for a moment, staring at him with wide-open eyes. Then she smiled and tried to playfully stroke the handkerchief she held in her hands. ‘Thorongil! You don't know how to walk through doors, do you?’ ‘I took a shortcut,’ Aragorn smiled back and bowed his head in greeting. ‘You knew I was here.’ ‘Yes, Denethor said you were coming,’ the lady sighed heavily and covered her eyes for a moment. ‘What a pity the occasion is so sad. But you'll stay, won't you?’ ‘No,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘I do not wish to wear out your husband's hospitality,’ he could not hide the bitterness in his voice. It was bitter to realise that the White City was no longer his home. ‘But I had you to thank. I'm right, you did this, didn't I? - he waved his hand at his new outfit.’ ‘I would suggest that Denethor give you shelter and bread in our house, no doubt,’ Lady Finduilas answered a little coldly. ‘If he had not thought of it himself.’ ‘Denethor?’ Aragorn asked dumbfounded. ‘Bread, clothes…’ ‘Yes,’ the lady answered simply. And smiled, seeing the sincere bewilderment on her interlocutor's face. ‘You don't know him well. My husband is a very proud man, and now his pride will be assuaged by the fact that he could have treated you very cruelly, but he was merciful.’ ‘What a complicated man,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘He is,’ the lady smiled sadly, and there was so much tenderness and love for her husband in her words and gaze that Aragorn would be involuntarily ashamed of his irritation. The lady did not pay much attention to her guest's surprise and ungrateful thoughts. She watched her eldest son and his attempts to crush his wooden opponent. She smiled, occasionally putting her fingers to her lips, either to hold back a burst of laughter or to stop herself from giving unsolicited advice. The fight had been going on for a long time now, and the boy was tired, his movements chaotic. In combat, this would have been called a last gasp or a tantrum. In the end, he made a very unfortunate blow, and the dummy spun on its axis and smashed the bottom rung, on which someone's old shoe was hanging, into the back of the little warrior's head. ‘Oh,’ the lady sighed uneasily and froze at the fence, barely restraining the impulse to rush to her son. He threw the wooden sword aside, fell to his knees, put both hands on his head, and shuddered. He swayed for a few seconds, as if cradling his new bump, then jumped up, grabbed his sword again, and launched another doomed attack. ‘I dread to count how many lumps he has already got today,’ Lady Finduilas whispered to Aragorn. ‘There's no stopping him; I'm just waiting for him to be exhausted.’ ‘It will never happen, my lady,’ Aragorn said, watching the boy. Gritting his teeth and wiping sweat or tears from his face, he attacked again and again. ‘Is this his first fight?’ ‘Yes, it is. He had a mentor in Linhir, but they did horseback riding, gymnastics... This is the first sword he was given.’ ‘It's not a sword, it's a stick,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘It's too late to teach him the basics.’ ‘Late? He's even not six,’ the lady almost pleaded. ‘When do you want to give swords to a child, to put them in the cradle?’ ‘No, of course not. That's not what I mean. I've known many good swordsmen who were taught much later in life. But at that age, children are taught the basics as a game, to build muscle and keep their interest. And your son…’ Aragorn met the boy's gaze. A chill ran down his spine at the sight. It can't be, children shouldn't have such grown-up eyes. ‘He's not playing.’ The boy stood in the middle of the square, leaning on his wooden sword like a warrior in the middle of a waning battle. The enemy dummy was lying on the paving stones, the stick that held it had broken. ‘May I speak to him?’ Aragorn asked Lady Finduilas quietly. ‘Uh, sure.’ The boy watched warily as the stranger who had just spoken to his mother came down from the porch and came closer. Aragorn looked at him and thought how much the son resembled his father. There was no need to speak of a portrait resemblance, either; he had taken much from his mother. His hair was lighter than his father's, brown, and when it burned in the sea sun it turned copper. Aragorn had been wrong about the colour of his eyes the last time he'd seen him; the boy's eyes were grey-green beryl. He was tall for his age and sturdily built, though thin - but that is common for children when they begin to grow quickly. He was already showing a dimple on his chin, a sign of implacable stubbornness and strong will. Surely, in only a decade or so, this sweet child would be a very handsome man, and people would say that in him the power and glory of the Númenor blood had been reborn. But more importantly, he will be brave, stubborn and kind. Harsh times forge strong men, and now, alas, is that time. ‘Hello,’ Aragorn said, coming closer. He sat down in front of the boy so that their faces were level and he didn't have to raise his head. ‘Who are you?’ Without a smile or a greeting, he asked the Steward's son. Aragorn hummed and cast a glance toward the porch. Lady Finduilas laughed and looked away embarrassed. ‘I doubt your mother didn't teach you manners,’ Aragorn said, turning to the wayward boy again. ‘Where are they?’ The gaze with which he was rewarded was as heavy as stone and belonged to Denethor. Only the Steward looked at him with his son's eyes. ‘Hello,’ the boy hissed. ‘Who are you?’ ‘My name is Thorongil. I'm a friend of your grandfather's.’ ‘He's dead,’ said the boy quietly, and swallowed, as if a bitter spasm had seized his throat, and his eyes immediately became dull, lost their sharpness and heaviness. ‘I know,’ Aragorn echoed him. ‘That is why I am here.’ And he added, louder and with a smile, ‘What is your name?’ ‘If you're a friend of my grandfather's, you know my name,’ the boy said. ‘Everyone in this town knows my name.’ ‘Why don't you introduce yourself?’ ‘Boromir,’ the boy said after a short hesitation. ‘Well, Boromir, let's get acquainted.’ Aragorn held out his hand. After hesitating, the boy shifted the sword to his left hand and held out his right hand to Aragorn, who shook it sincerely and gratefully. He shook it sincerely and gratefully. All assumptions were correct - the boy's hands were already bloody and splinters were visible in some places. Aragorn ran his fingertips over the blisters and abrasions, whispered a simple spell in Elvish, wishing the pain would go away. Immediately he heard a surprised sigh. Boromir looked delighted, even almost smiled. The searing pain that had tormented him was almost gone. ‘How do you do that?’ He asked, looking at his own hand. Nothing seemed to have changed; the wounds were still there, itching and stinging if you touched them, but the aching burning was gone. ‘Elven medicine,’ Aragorn smiled. ‘But it must be bandaged anyway, the pain will return.’ ‘Later,’ Boromir said. Apparently he was not concerned with wounds that did not cause unbearable suffering. ‘Show me your sword,’ Aragorn asked. ‘It is not a sword, it is a stick.’ Boromir intercepted the sword by the thick raw "blade" and held it out to Aragorn. ‘And you can fight with a stick, and quite successfully.’ ‘This stick doesn't even look like a good stick,’ Boromir muttered. Aragorn almost laughed out loud. The training weapon was indeed very shoddily made. There was no balance, the grip didn't even remotely resemble a real one, just a crooked cross. The hilt itself was very roughly carved and awkward to grip, not to mention the splinters. It was too large, and the hilt was too large to touch the forearm and rested uncomfortably on the wrist when the sword was held straight, an extension of the arm. Whoever had made this blade for the young heir would have been advised to give such a toy to his own children. ‘Terrible thing,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘No wonder you hurt your hands. You need a real hilt, winding, proper grip.’ ‘You can't get a real sword,’ Boromir sighed. ‘My father has posted guards at the armoury.’ Aragorn laughed and looked at Lady Finduilas. Her face, indignant and delighted at the same time, showed that she had no knowledge of her son's attempts to break into the armoury. ‘And you, young man, are wasting no time,’ Aragorn said, still laughing. How many days has this boy been in the capital? Two, three? His life had changed drastically, but it didn't seem to bother him. His grandfather's death saddened him, but not the new house. ‘It's no use,’ Boromir glanced at the laughing adults, then kicked the defeated dummy angrily. ‘They won't give me a sword. The real one's too heavy for me. And big. Taller than I am,’ Boromir raised his palm to his forehead, mentally trying on something, probably his father's sword. ‘Swords come in many forms.’ ‘Uh-huh. An envelope opener is just the thing for me.’ That funny boy in the robes of a guardian of the White Tower evoked love and tenderness in Aragorn's soul. Who had thought of dressing him up like that? Probably his father, to please his grandfather in his final hour. The old man must have taken a fond look at his grandson and blessed him to defend Gondor. But how can you fulfil that covenant when you are about to turn six and your weapon is a crooked stick? For Boromir, there was no game of war; war was on his doorstep. And the child's heart shrank with worry that he would not be able to protect those he loved, for he had no sword. ‘Would you like to hold a real sword?’ Aragorn asked quietly, putting his arm around the boy and pulling him close to him. ‘You will try on the hilt and see if the two-handed weapon fits you.’ ‘I won't even pick it up,’ Boromir sniffed his nose and pressed his lips together. ‘You'll pick this one up.’ Aragorn drew the fragment of Narsil from its sheath with his left hand and held it out to Boromir. He gazed mesmerised at the mangled sword and held out his hands, his wounded palms and fingers gripping the smooth leather of the braid. Boromir did not even flinch. He raised the sword before him, pointing the broken edge of the blade at the sky and watching the glare of the sun on the polished blade. A barely audible sigh came from the terrace. Aragorn turned his head and saw Lady Finduilas staring at him. She looked unbelievingly from the sword in her son's hands to the man everyone called Thorongil, then, believing her eyes and her heart, she smiled broadly, her eyes lighting up with hope and faith. Aragorn discreetly put his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. And Finduilas silently said, "Of course," and Aragorn read the promise and accepted it. ‘It's broken,’ Boromir said. He didn't notice the glances of the adults; his attention was on the first real sword. His admiration was mixed with disappointment. ‘This sword has a long history,’ Aragorn nodded. ‘A long and glorious history, full of feats and bitter defeats.’ ‘Is there glory in defeat?’ Boromir looked doubtful. ‘Depends on what kind of defeat it is. There are some that are sung in poetry.’ Boromir snorted, wrinkled his nose. But he did not let go of the sword. He glanced at Aragorn, expecting him to ask for the sword back, but instead Aragorn rose, stepped back a few paces and looked at the dummy. ‘A pity it fell before its time. Come on,’ he shouted to Boromir, ‘show me what you can do. You can do something, can't you?’ ‘I can,’ the boy replied with a mysterious grin. He lowered the sword he still held tightly with both hands. Then he swung upward, a near-perfect underhand slash. Then immediately hit the side of the invisible opponent, another one, swing, turn around. Fighting stance, body sideways, chin parallel to the shoulder, turn again, the enemy behind! A downward, heavy, chopping blow, slicing through the orc from shoulder to groin, crumpling his armour like paper. From the side, look out! Get him! Another blow, slashing, with a pullback, and another to the neck, the orc's head rolling on the ground. Boromir stood amidst a pile of defeated foes. The battle was won, his heart pounding, his arms aching. The admiring gaze of an unwilling spectator, Thorongil, coming from behind the trees. He heard the sound of the horn and came to help, but it was no longer needed - Boromir had finished the fight himself. ‘Unbelievable,’ Aragorn whispered, looking at the wide-smiling boy. He was exhausted, but he was glowing with happiness. ‘Where did you learn how to do that?!’ ‘I was watching the guards,’ Boromir replied, embarrassed but proud. He brushed his wet hair back from his forehead, held the sword in one hand, and finally returned it to Aragorn with regret. ‘Where would I get one of these?’ ‘I'm afraid there isn't one like it; it's the only one,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘But you need one, yes. Ask your father to put a blade made of straw on a real hilt. You need a hilt.’ ‘I will,’ Boromir said firmly. Somewhere in the depths of the rooms a child's cry sounded at that moment. All eyes turned to the high curtained door, Lady Finduilas looked at Aragorn, nodded, and the woman disappeared into the room. ‘Your brother?’ Aragorn asked, turning to Boromir. ‘Yes,’ he answered. The boy's eyes grew anxious, his eyebrows shifted, he grew serious and seemed older. ‘Faramir. Mama says he's too young to understand what happened. But that's not true. He understands. A long drive, a carriage, then another house. It even smells different. He doesn't realise there's no grandfather, but everything else is very different.’ ‘How old is he?’ Aragorn tried to keep the boy occupied by talking so that he would smile again. It worked. It was obvious that Boromir loved his brother very much, was very attached to him, even though there was a noticeable difference in the boys' ages. ‘He's almost a year old, and he's already walking,’ Boromir said excitedly. ‘My mother says I was early, but it doesn't matter - Faramir is very good at it. I gave him all my toys, all of them. I'm an adult, he needs them more. I gave him a horse, a wooden one. Of course, learning to ride a wooden horse is the same as fighting with this,’ Boromir glanced contemptuously at his training sword. ‘But a wooden horse is at least fun.’ ‘Speaking of presents…’ Aragorn slapped his forehead, only now remembering what was at the bottom of his bag, how carefully he had chosen and packed it. ‘I've brought you a gift. From Harad.’ ‘Me?’ Boromir asked incredulously. ‘And Faramir?’ ‘I'm sorry, I didn't realise there were two of you,’ Aragorn smiled apologetically. ‘And, frankly, I don't know if it's good for a little one like you.’ ‘I will leave it to him,’ Boromir assured him. ‘He will grow up and he will be allowed to.’ This child was quite serious about sharing everything, unconditionally, even saving half of his gift for years to fit his brother. ‘How hard it will be for you to live, little one, with such a big heart,’ Aragorn thought. ‘A big heart is always an easy target.’ Aragorn asked if he could get some hot milk somewhere. Boromir pulled him into the house. Completely thawed, he led Thorongil, whom he had berated half an hour ago, as if nothing had happened, into the rooms where they were lodged with his mother and brother. Two doors opened from the hallway, one leading into large and bright living quarters - through the archway Lady Finduilas could be seen pacing the room with a whimpering child in her arms. The second door led into a long, dimly lit corridor. It opened into storerooms, utility rooms, and at the end was the kitchen. While Aragorn looked around, Boromir briskly pushed a tall stool against the wall, climbed up on it, reached the rope and hung from it. In the middle of the kitchen, the stove rose, opening a passage to the cellar. ‘The milk is there, I'll get it,’ he was about to duck down the crooked staircase into the darkness, Aragorn caught him and set him aside. ‘No, your parents won't forgive me if you break your neck here.’ ‘I've been up there a hundred times!’ ‘You've lived in this house for three days and you couldn't have climbed into the cellar a hundred times,’ Aragorn threatened with his finger. ‘You'd better get a small cauldron.’ He brought milk, and he and Boromir hung the wok over the hearth in the corner of the kitchen. Together they built a fire. Boromir did not move a step away, bringing wood and cooking utensils, watching every movement. He was like a half-wild animal that had sensed a safe man. He must have missed his father's attention, especially now that the family was in the throes of grief, the loss of a loved one. Denethor had withdrawn into himself, not sharing his pain with his wife and children, distancing himself so as not to wound further. Boromir literally climbed under his arm, Aragorn rubbed his red head and marvelled that the boy did not yet purr. ‘Look,’ Aragorn pulled two round tin boxes from the bottom of his bag. One was brightly enamelled with a huge oliphant and tiny people around it, the other a beautiful bird with a huge, brightly coloured tail like a fan. ‘Have you seen the Oliphants?’ Boromir exclaimed in admiration. ‘Yes, I have. Huge as a house.’ ‘I wish I could take one look...’ ‘You'll see them. The war will end someday and the roads south will be safe again. Trade will pick up.’ Aragorn opened a jar with oliphant on the lid. It contained a dark brown fine powder, fragrant, spicy. Boromir poked his curious nose in, then licked his little finger, touched the contents, and pulled a few grains of powder into his mouth. Immediately he grimaced. ‘Bitter!’ ‘Yes, it's cocoa. It's bitter. But if you cook it right, it's delicious. Here, try this now.’ The second jar contained small brown crystals, larger than cocoa and lighter in colour. Boromir reached for them with apprehension. But after a moment his face returned to a look of surprise and joy. ‘And this is sweet!’ ‘Cane sugar,’ Aragorn nodded. ‘Sweeter than honey. Cocoa and sugar used to be transported to Gondor, but then Mordor ruined the trade routes and everything withered away. Your father probably didn't have cocoa, chocolate, coffee anymore.’ ‘Why would Mordor need cocoa and sugar?’ wondered Boromir. ‘Do Orcs eat that?’ ‘No. More often than not, villains take things from us not so they can have them, but so we can't. And cocoa, it's a wonderful thing. It's medicinal.’ ‘From what?’ ‘From anxiety and sadness.’ Aragorn took out a large mug and poured into it from the cauldron an aromatic, thick drink, a mixture of fresh fat milk, a strange bitter cocoa with the flavour of distant lands, and a sweet sugar that was sweeter than honey. Then handed Boromir the mug. ‘Just be careful, it's hot.’ The two of them, a boy and a man, sat by the hearth, pulling two high stools closer to the fire, their feet dangling in the air. Boromir blew on his cocoa and took small sips, holding the mug with both hands through the towel so that the hot walls would not burn his wounded palms. He refused to be bandaged again, stubborn. Aragorn spoke of the wonders he had seen in the south. To Ecthelion in the night he told of things terrible and dark, things he would tell Denethor if he would listen. And there was so much darkness in those stories that despair came to him. But he did not tell Boromir about slaves, lashes, and hordes of orcs. But about spice markets, about tame leopards, about half-mythical oliphants, strange birds, outlandish customs. Aragorn felt his heart warming. He wanted to bring comfort, and he received it himself. Boromir asked questions, and Aragorn began to draw with charcoal on the table the quaint tents of the Harad nomads and the funny, humpbacked horses. ‘You were right, you know,’ Boromir said when there was a pause in the conversation. He looked down into the mug, where the thick, dark liquid was still splashing at the bottom, already tinged with the bitterness of undissolved cocoa. ‘It really is medicine. It's so warm.’ ‘I know something about medicine,’ Aragorn nodded. ‘Faramir probably doesn't need it yet,’ Boromir said doubtfully. ‘What about my father? Can I give him cocoa?’ ‘Sure. But I doubt this drink will do that to him. This stuff only works if a friend makes it for you.’ ‘But you said…’ ‘A friend of your grandfather's. And your mother. But not your father,’ Aragorn smiled sadly. ‘But are you a friend to me?’ Boromir asked anxiously, looking into his eyes. ‘Of course.’ They talked about many other things. About the coming war - Boromir knew too much about it for a child, probably his parents had kept nothing from their son. About weapons. Aragorn advised the boy not to use two-handed swords, since he had a pronounced right-handedness. Of course, long, heavy swords were the best and most formidable weapons for boys, but much more could be done with a sturdy short sword or a good half-and-half sword. Boromir promised to grow tall like his father and even overtake him, which means that the length of his arm is enough to keep any enemy at a distance with a short sword. Boromir, as an adult, seriously agreed with these arguments. The sun was already high and Aragorn was getting ready to go. He still had to visit the market on the lower tier, try to sell some of the spoils from the south, and buy a horse. He refused the money offered by Lady Finduilas and her ruby ring. The parting was awkward and awkward, for Boromir did not understand and did not want to understand that his new friend was going away for a long time, but Lady Finduilas understood it all too well. She promised to thank her husband and gave her hand in farewell. Boromir climbed the wall over which Aragorn had swung and sat there for a long time, looking after him. Aragorn did not realise that he had missed Denethor by only a minute. The funeral ritual in the tomb ended with a small crowd, Steward Ecthelion laid to rest beneath the stone slab, and the lords of Gondor swore in the new ruler. Boromir was still sitting on the wall when his father came and took him down. Both son and mother were silent about the visitor, and Lady Finduilas only said that Thorongil had come, stayed a short time, and left. This news seemed to pass Denethor by; he was thinking of his own. ‘You'd better go back to Linhir,’ he said, standing on the veranda, hugging his wife and watching Boromir trying to fix a fallen dummy. ‘Take the children, you'll be safer there.’ ‘I'm not leaving you,’ the lady shook her head. ‘Not now.’ ‘This city is weighing on you, sweetheart.’ ‘Being away from you is heavier than this burden.’ The lady embraced her husband and hid her face against his chest. ‘Besides,’ she added, turning again and looking at Boromir. ‘It is time for our son to learn.’ ‘Teachers can be found in Linhir as well.’ ‘I'll teach him to read and write myself. But he needs a swordsman teacher, and the best ones are here in the garrison.’ ‘He's not even six,’ Denethor shook his head. Then sighed. ‘But you are right. Today he is named heir to the Stewards. His childhood is over.’ The Steward and his wife stood on the porch for some time watching the children. The nurse had dressed little Faramir and taken him out into the yard, and now he was running after his older brother, falling and rising laughing. Boromir sometimes looked up at his parents, and the joy of the game was replaced by anxiety on his face, but in a moment he was chasing after his brother again, forgetting everything. ‘I have a terrible premonition,’ Denethor said quietly, looking at his sons with love and pain. ‘That my father's death is the last to come to us with grey hair and time. We will never have the luxury of old age again.’