I was raised to gather courage

I. 
There will be other children, Finduilas reassures Denethor, as he brushes his fingertips through the soft, dark hair on his daughter’s pate. We will have sons. I have dreamed of sons.

II.
Her childhood is a litany of be still and be quiet—her nurse claims she must have orch blood, for no daughter of Men would run wild through Minas Tirith, tearing her skirts and tracking mud through Merethrond. It becomes a common sight, the Steward’s granddaughter with her dark hair coming loose of its plaits, a long-suffering guard trailing half the corridor behind.

You should have called her Haleth, Ecthelion told Denethor once, when she had to be pulled off the cook’s son. (She had found him harrying one of the palace’s old mousers with a sharpened stick, and when he would not stop at her word, she had given him another reason.) She may be of the House of Húrin, but that girl is reckless and wild as a chieftain of the first age.

She does not remember when their indulgence began to run cold, when be still and be quiet became expected, inviolable. She does not remember when she chose to surrender to it. Only that she woke, and found herself drowning.

III.
She does not weep, when her lady mother is laid to rest in that grey house on the silent street. Faramir’s hand is small and hot in hers, and Father will not turn his gaze on them, not even when Faramir begins screaming and has to be taken away by his nurse. But she is the lady of Minas Tirith now, she cannot scream and beat her fists for her mother, shut up forever in lightless stone. 

She wanted to rest by the sea, she tells her uncle Imrahil, who rode all day and night to sit by his sister’s deathbed and hold her cold, limp hand. He has not wept either. She wasn’t—she wanted to sea. It made her sick, wanting the sea.

Her uncle looks at her for a long moment, before touching her cheek gently and saying, You have her eyes.

(They will say she is a hard-hearted girl, after. She did not weep for her mother, her heart is a stone.)

IV.
Faramir slips into her rooms most nights, bringing the scrolls from his history lessons, or battle-maps, when he is trying to bribe her into storytelling. She has little interest in the dry histories and Elven lore, but she likes sitting with him on the floor, a candle at each corner of the map, tracing the movements of companies with her fingers.

You should be our father’s son, Faramir says, after another bitter fight with Denethor. He would delight in an son who sought the battelfield, and sought the bright sword for glory as much as for Gondor. Perhaps then he would find no more fault in me, he adds quietly.

She knows Faramir’s heart as well as her own, how it longs for the old songs and music without the harsh underpinning of drums, so she says nothing of battles already lost. Instead, she lets him talk of his lessons until he falls asleep, nested in her bedclothes like an errant sparrow.

When she is of an age, she is quietly informed that such closeness is no longer appropriate between brother and sister. (You are a woman now, and soon, he will be a man, Denethor says sternly, like that is explanation enough for why she must look jealously on as Faramir is taught to swing a sword.)

She sits in her bed, that first night, listening to her little brother call out her name from beyond the door. At some point, his voice trails off into silence.

He does not return the next night, or any night after.

V.
Her father begins spending much time shut away in his study atop the tower, only to emerge greyer and grim, his shoulders weighted with some burden that will not be shared. (The rumors unsettle her—she trusts steel and the strength of armed men before whatever sorcerous battles her father may conduct in secret.) He shows his advisors and generals a new coolness, lashing out at those princes who dare question his will.

She has never excelled at the subtleties of statecraft—the well-placed word was always Faramir’s art. But Faramir is too often in Osgiliath, Anórien, Ithilien, and so it is she who must say, I know how highly my father values your counsel, how greatly he respects you—he is only distracted, there is much that weighs on his mind in these dark days. Have patience, I will speak with him.

(demure suits her like an ill-fitted girdle, but she learns to breathe shallowly, to smile through the bite of it)

The wizard Mithrandir comes again to Minas Tirith, sowing ever-new discord between Faramir and Denethor. He says there is an army massing to the east, Faramir tells her in quiet conference, their heads bent over missives from the outposts. I have seen some of their soldiers, skulking in Ithilien…

You know Mithrandir seeks to undermine our father, she says. Why do you entertain his counsel? All this can do is cause more strife between you—strife that Gondor can ill-afford between its steward and its captain.

If he has wisdom that can aid Gondor, then we cannot disregard him, Faramir says, and that is the end of it.

It is not until Imrahil comes to her and Faramir one night, that she dares reply.

Denethor is Steward of Gondor, she tells her uncle, unable to keep the wrath from her voice. Father to me, husband to your sister, and liege-lord to us both. Or had you forgot, in your haste to question his quality and suggest his children usurp him?

I would never question the Lord Denethor’s quality, Imrahil says, but he is not gazing at her any longer. His eyes are on Faramir, battle-tested Faramir, arrayed in the livery of the House of Hurin, with his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He could be Pelendur risen again, for the way that Imrahil looks at him.

Nor would I ever suggest you rise against him, Imrahil says, for that would be folly. But these are dark times, and the Steward’s mind is much occupied with great matters—all I suggest is that we might lighten his burden. To ask ourselves whether we serve Gondor, or its steward.

They are one in the same! she protests, but neither Imrahil nor Faramir turn. They do not hear her. The whole of the sundering sea is between them, and she is drowning.

VI.
Faramir leads men into war, but the people salute her as she passes now, hands to their breasts and cries of lady! lady of the white tower!

It is cold consolation, compared with her brother’s captain or her father’s prince, but it is consolation, all the same.

VII.
You cannot send him, she tells her father. Denethor looks older by candlelight, weariness written deep in the lines of his face. I too have been troubled by dark dreams, you know—but you cannot send Faramir to Imladris, he must be here, he must be kept safe. 

He is your only son, she says, though it tastes bitterer than she would like.

Whom else should I send? Denethor returns, and the weariness is in his voice as well. What man could I ask to brave the long journey, for so uncertain a cause?

For that, she has no answer.

VIII.
They hear nothing of Faramir for long months. She loses count of the night she wakes, cold and without breath, hearing the distant lowing of the Horn and unable to answer its call.

She spends her sleepless nights the council chambers, a candle at each corner of the map, tracing the movements of companies with her fingers.

IX.
Faramir returns in the spring, smelling of sweat and sour iron, the reek of horses in his hair. She breathes him in, and the smell sticks in her throat, choking her more than the tears. I had thought you dead, she says, embracing him. You sent no word, I—my hope grew thinner with each waning month, especially when I heard of Rohan’s recent strife. Oh, little brother… 

Sister, Faramir says, and she need not look to know he is smiling.

X.
(Sam produces the letter from beneath his cloak, offers it up to Anborn. That is the hand and seal of Faramir, Captain of the White Tower, Frodo tells the Dúnadan. We travel beneath his protection.

The Rangers of Ithilien let them pass.)

XI.
You cannot send me from this place, she says. Her voice sounds thin against the stone, but she dare not raise it further. I will not be banished with the women and children, not in Minas Tirith’s hour of need. 

You will serve us better if you look to the protection of our people, Denethor says.

I have served you in all else, she protests, her voice near to breaking. She feels like she cannot draw breath, the shackles tightening around her chest Please, do not send me away. Do not make me ride beside a caravan of smiths and bakers, to look back at my beloved city and know my kindred risk death. Please, father.

You have never seen a battlefield, daughter; you do not know what it is you ask, Denethor says, more gently.

Our land has been a battlefield for five hundred years! I have heard nothing but drums and the screams of horses all my life. I have held the hands of dying men, and commanded others to their deaths, when you or Faramir could not give the order. I have sought a battlefield my whole life, grant me this one, when every willing arm is needed, when Gondor—when all the world—rests in the balance.

Her voice dies away in echoes, until all that is left is her ragged breathing. She has never shouted in these halls, never dared to openly question her father’s will (be still, be quiet)

Denethor is silent. Finally, he rises from the steward’s seat, and breathes out. Your mother would not have wished this, he says grimly, then sweeps from the hall.

The next day, all in Minas Tirith who are not soldiers or guards are sent away to safety. She is not among them.

XII.
Don’t die, Faramir says quietly, in the long hours before dawn. They neither of them have slept, spending most of the night bent over battle-plans, a candle at each corner of the map, tracing the movements of companies with her fingers. I won’t let you.

She thinks of that boy standing beyond her door in the night, calling for his sister. I will not go anywhere you cannot follow, she swears.

XIII.
There will be stories told of it—how the noble steward was felled from the walls by the arrows of the Haradrim; how all hope there seemed lost until one of the guard of the citadel pulled off his helm, and there was astonishment when it was revealed to be Denethor’s daughter, fierce and fair, looking as Haleth of old.

There will be songs sung of how the steward’s daughter took up her father’s great sword and cried For the House of Húrin! For the White Tower! rallying the men at the walls, even as her brother led the armies of Minas Tirith against the forces below. They fought of one strength, of one mind, and as one drove back the black armies.

(Few of the stories will mention how, when the sun set and no enemy lived, she would fall to her knees and weep bitterly to be an orphan in the world.)

XIV.
You found your battlefield, Faramir says, when they find one another in the Houses of Healing. They both smell of sweat and sour iron, the oily smoke from the burning siege-engines lingering in their hair. (There is blood crusted to her breastplate, and the healer suspects she has broken more than a few ribs.)

They saluted me, as I rode past, she does not say to Faramir. Your men, our father’s men. They bowed their heads and they pressed a hand to their breasts, they called me Warden of the White Tower.

But she knows Faramir’s heart as well as her own, so she says nothing. She breathes in, and out again, and smiles.

XV.
They are feasting in Merethrond, welcoming the new Rohirric king; she can hear the music even from here, the low thunder of voices. But she pays it little heed, settling against the back of the steward’s chair. She opens her hands, laying them on the arms—feeling the cold of the black stone seep through her palms.

Once, she thought all the world could be held in this room.

I do not believe that is your seat, Morwen daughter of Denethor, the new king Elessar says, startling her from her reverie. (She did not observe him enter the throne room, nor hear any footfalls—his ranger past is slow to leave him.) But amusement plays about his mouth, and she is still loose with wine, so she lifts her chin and asks,

Are you offering yours to me, Aragorn son of Arathorn?

He laughs. I would be a poor king to surrender a throne so lately won.

She allows him a smile at that. Faramir will make a good steward, she says a moment later, willing away the rueful note in her voice.

He will, Aragorn agrees. He has shown his quality again and again, during our fellowship. As you showed yours, at Pelennor, and again at the Black Gate.

It was right that I go, and the steward stay to defend Minas Tirith, she says, tracing a small fissure in the stone with her fingers. His place is here, Faramir’s place is here.

And yours?

She looks up. Elessar Telcontar is not yet her king, though she assented to his coronation—she suspects there it have been a harder fight to have him named so, if Denethor had not died that day. But Aragorn rode out with her, at the Morannon; he had called her Warden of the White Tower, a Captain of the West like Rohan’s king, like Imrahil. No one has asked her place before, only issued it, assumed it. She is not even certain she has an answer.

Elessar Telcontar is not yet her king, but perhaps he might be.

She breathes.