The City of Kings slumbered in that strange, silver light of early morning, when even the bells held their breath and the ravens had not yet taken to the skies. It was on such a morning, grey with promise, that Faramir – not yet eight years old – made his quiet ascent to his father’s chambers.
In his trembling hands, a gift. A book, bound not in the customary leather of Gondor but in scraps of cloth he had sewn together himself, with stitches as crooked as a fledgling’s footsteps. The ink within was smudged and uneven, the quill having danced under his as yet unskilled hand. Words were there, etched in long evenings spent beneath candlelight, when the world seemed paused in some monastic silence. A compilation of lore, of half-remembered songs, of histories as he had heard them told by old men in the citadel’s shadow.
Faramir had written them not as a scholar, but as a son.
A ribbon – blue as the River Anduin in spring thaw – held the book shut, tied in a bow so careful it had taken three attempts and a pin-prick to his thumb. He did not bandage the wound. It felt strangely fitting, that small sacrifice. He thought of the old tales, of Elves who wrote in blood and tears, of kings who carved runes into their arms as testament. What was a father, if not a kind of king?
In the shadows of Denethor’s study, the boy waited. The chamber, austere and magnificent, seemed to throb with the ghost of warmth. Bookcases towered like sentinels while the fire lay dormant, embers winking like the dying eyes of dragons. This was his father’s realm, one ruled by order, silence and intellect, but not unkind.
In those years, he had not yet learned to see Denethor’s sorrow as a consuming tide. He saw instead the gleam of his father’s mind, his solemnity, the way his voice could summon obedience like the blast of a silver horn. To him, Denethor was a constellation – remote, brilliant, severe.
When his sire entered, clad in robes the colour of crows, Faramir approached with his gift outstretched, his small heart aching with a tender courage.
“It is not perfect,” he said. “But it is true.”
He placed the book into his father’s hands, and for a breathless moment, silence settled between them, frail and luminous as spider silk.
Following his usual routine, Denethor had awoken while darkness still covered the land. He stood observing the east, watching the red glow in the sky in the distance. Every morning he stood trying to perceive what secrets the Ephel Duath kept. He understood it was futile. There was only one object that could give him the answers he required. And still the the pragmatist stood, hoping his keen eyes could pierce the darkness.
Where Boromir was the blazing midday sun, and Faramir the hushed, deepening twilight, their sire was the ashen stillness of pre-dawn. The tranquil stillness of that hour, the profound quiet just before the world stirred to life, suited him perfectly. It was the breath held, the moment of pure potential before the day's great unfurling.
Denethor, master of that sprawling realm, inhaled that breath as if it were his own. He remained like that until the sun began to rise, its first rays signaling it was time to begin his work.
Intrigue raised his brow at the study door, for it stood ajar. He had not left it so. The Steward, clad in polished mail and with a great sword at his hip, was unafraid of intruders. Less so when the light fell upon his youngest holding out an offering.
A book. A work of his own.
Denethor crouched, lowering himself until his eyes met Faramir's.
"Truth is more valuable than perfection. For perfection is often but a gilded lie, while truth, however harsh, remains unyielding fact."
He took the book with utmost care in both hands, for it was far too precious to be grasped with only one. The knot holding it closed was undone in a moment, and the book opened on Faramir's efforts. A long pregnant paused filled the austere room as Denethor appreciated each page before moving on. The whole work would need further viewing, but he could feel Faramir's anticipation.
"And, yet, you have managed to combine both beauty and veracity." A smile, genuine and rare, banished the shadows from his face. Denethor pulled Faramir into an embrace. He was proud of what his son had accomplished, unaided by any hand but his own. More than the sheer quality of the work, it revealed the deep-seated qualities of the boy, and the noble man he was destined to become.
"This shall have a place of honor on these shelves. Thank you, Faramir."
