Author's notes:

This is my first fanfic in the LotR fandom, so please show mercy! It was written long ago, for Lilan14, in The Faramir Gen and Het Exchange 2008 - moderated by Arahiril and Alexa Johnson on LiveJournal: .. I'm very grateful to Arahiril for the fast and thorough beta, for the wonderful suggestions and for constantly encouraging me during the writing process. Also, a very warm "Thank you!!!" to Raksha The Demon, the one who made me create this new profile and post Banners here as well. Without her insisting that it was worth it, this little story would never have made it out of LJ...

Disclaimer: Fragments in italics are direct quotes from the book. I used the one volume, Tolkien centenary edition (Grafton – An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, London, 1992). All the references and citations are for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement is intended whatsoever.

…And when the sun rose in the clear morning above the mountains in the East, upon which shadows lay no more, then all the bells rang, and all the banners broke and flowed in the wind; and upon the White Tower of the citadel the standard of the Stewards, bright argent like snow in the sun, bearing no charge nor device, was raised over Gondor for the last time.

The Lord Faramir remained long in thought, watching as this symbol for the authority of the House of Stewards quivered under the cold breath of the North Wind. This was the banner under which he had marched to war so many times, ridding against the Shadow to defend the borders of his realm. This was the banner which his men carried the last time he had lead them into battle, and into needless peril, at the fort of Osgiliath. The lives of all those brave soldiers that were lost there would weigh on his soul forever, like a bitter reminder of his own past ill fate… and foolishness. Indeed, he was obeying the command of the Lord of the City; yet, at the time, his heart had also burned with the desire to prove himself in the eyes of his lord and father. To make him think better of his son.

'That depends on the manner of your return.'

Faramir closed his eyes, driving away the horror of his last battle and not daring to think of his father again. Those were painful thoughts, and this day admitted neither pain nor sorrow. For it was the day when the King was to enter the City again, and the duty of his Steward was to prepare Minas Tirith for his arrival.

Taking a deep breath, the man went forward on his road. He was going to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, to retrieve the Silver Crown for the coronation of the heir of Elendil. He walked in the sixth circle, passing through Fen Hollen and leaving behind the Steward's Door, where, he was told, blood had been spilled to save his life. Although the Warden in the Houses of Healing had let no one tell him of the dreadful events of that day, he nevertheless learned them afterwards. He stopped before the place where the House of the Stewards should have been. Instead of the majestic dome protecting the sleep of his forefathers, there was only the wreck that the madness of Denethor had left behind.

An unwanted image of the heathen pyre which burned his father alive crossed his mind, and, despite himself, Faramir ordered the men that accompanied him to wait by the road, and went alone among the ruins. Upon the shattered marble tables, dark from the smoke, the embalmed bodies had been turned to ashes. Even if the blasphemy outraged him, the remains of his ancestors were not his care for the moment. He had mourned for his father in his heart, but it pained him greatly that Denethor had not received the last rites that were fitted for a Steward.

He searched for the newest table, and found it near the entrance. There was ash on it, and fragments of wood that had not been completely consumed by the fire. Of his father's body he found no trace, not at least something that he could recognize. A small piece of the rod, which Denethor in his rage had broken, was still there, yet Faramir did not touch it. He knelt in front of the table, and felt hot tears forming in his eyes.

'Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end.'

Mithrandir's words rang in his ears as his fingers lightly caressed the edge of the funeral block of stone. His sight became blurry, and the tears in his eyes felt heavier. But he released them not, and, with a trembling voice, he spoke to the silence:

'Farewell, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, last of the Ruling Stewards. More kingly than any man in Gondor you were, and valiant, and wise. And you ruled over your realm with a masterful hand, and the welfare of Minas Tirith was ever your only concern. Evil was never in your heart, though evil it was that strayed your mind and brought you to your tragic end.

'For the deeds of your last days, I forgive you, and in the heart of your son you shall live, the proud and noble ruler that you once were. Farewell, my lord and my father! May your spirit rest with the Valar, beyond the confines of the world!'

The last words were spoken in a firm and resounding voice, and the crumbled walls returned the echo of the ultimate blessing, filling the chamber with its gravity. Faramir stood, and peace was in his soul once again. When he returned to his men, it seemed to them that the little time their lord had spent inside of the tomb had eased a great sorrow from his mind.

They walked forward on the Silent Street, and after a while they came at last to their destination: the House of the Kings. There Faramir saw the body of Théoden, King of the Mark, sleeping among the monarchs of Gondor for a while, soon to be removed to Rohan, and buried at Edoras, in a tall mound covered with the white petals of simbelmynë.

They entered deeper into the cold halls where all the kings of old were laid. But the body of Eärnur, the last King of Gondor, was not there, for he had long ridden into Minas Morgul, accepting the challenge of the Witch-king, and came no more to his throne. In the lap of Eärnil, father of Eärnur, there was the Silver Crown, and the pearls and the gems of adamant wrought on the lofty white helm shone in the dim light, and the jewel which was set upon its summit seemed to emit a glow of its own.

Using the authority of the Steward, Faramir took the crown in his hands, and held it for a moment with reverence. For almost a thousand years, it had waited the return of one with royal blood to renew the line of kings that had faltered. And that one had come at last, and the hour fixed for his entering the City was rapidly approaching. The Steward had his men put the crown in a casket which they had bought for this purpose, and they began their journey back.

But before leaving the Silent Street, they halted one more time, in front of a high dome just beside the one that had recently been destroyed by flames. It was the Ancient House of the Stewards, where the first ones of his line rested in a slumber undisturbed. There were Pelendur, and Vorondil the Hunter, and all the great men of the House of Húrin after them. Faramir stopped in front of the tomb of Mardil Voronwë, the Steadfast, the Good Steward and first to rule over Gondor. And at the head of the tomb there was a great statue of him; tall he stood, and noble and majestic was the marble of his face, the image of a man in whose veins the blood of Númenor had run true.

Standing in front of the tomb, Faramir faced the ancient statue and uttered the words that would have filled the heart of the long gone first Steward with bliss:

'Rejoice, great spirit, for today your wish has come true and your longing has come to an end. The King is at last come into his inheritance, and today a Steward from your line shall hail him and fulfil what was of old the duty of every Steward. For six and twenty generations, the men of your line have held the white rod and ruled in the name of the king, and today that office shall be surrendered, and the king shall rule again over his own. Be glad, Mardil the Steadfast, and rejoice in the return of the King!'

And leaving the Silent Street, it occurred to Faramir that he was indeed a most blessed man. For the deed that he was to accomplish that very day surpassed in glory the efforts of his forefathers for centuries.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Hours later, a great assembly of fair people stood at the entrance to the White City, and before the barrier that replaced the mighty gates that had fallen there were a great number of captains of Gondor lead by the Steward Faramir and Húrin Warden of the Keys, and there were knights of the Mark with their Marshal. And with them, tall and slender, and beautiful beyond measure, stood the White Lady of Rohan, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, the Shield-maiden who had won great renown for herself in the battle of the Pelennor Fields.

As the Captains of the West approached with their victorious host, the Steward's gaze was solely on the tall figure of the Lord Aragorn. Faramir gave little heed to the splendid raiment in which he was clad, and only observed the other man's eyes. It was those deep, grey eyes which he first beheld when he awoke from the feverish sleep in which the Black Breath had sent him. When the healing hand of Aragorn had dragged him from the land of the Shadow, he had known him, and in his heart love had been kindled for his liege.

'My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?' Those had been his first words, and Faramir distinctly remembered uttering them, not in a trance, but with the clarity of foresight. 'Be ready when I return', Aragorn had said, and here they were, the Steward and the King, face to face again, in front of all the people gathered for the most solemn of moments.

Faramir felt the time had come to achieve the deed that many Stewards of old had dreamed to reach, and many of late had dreaded to think of. He knelt and, holding out the white rod, he looked down and said, reverently yet confidently:

'The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.' His own words made Faramir shudder, for they signalled that the days of his House were in truth ended forever. Yet the rule of the Stewards had always been provisional; until the king shall return, those were the words in their oath. And, at last, their duty was fulfilled. He waited for Aragorn to take the rod from his hands, and the heir of Elendil did so. But, to the Steward's astonishment, he gave it back to him, saying: 'That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last.' Confusion overwhelmed him at his lord's words, and a few deep beats of his pondering heart passed before Faramir could grasp their full meaning and implications. Then he lifted his gaze, and again met the eyes of Aragorn, and in them saw encouragement and trust. 'Do now thy office!' he asked, and it was not a command, but a request that Faramir fulfilled most gladly.

Standing up, as in a sweet dream, he called for the people of Gondor to acknowledge their King, declaring his claim to the throne and enumerating his titles. And the people, with one voice, cried yea, and then he brought the casket and, together with the Ring-bearer, Frodo the Halfling, and with Mithrandir the White Wizard, they put the ancient crown on his head. And Faramir perceived all that was done and spoken as if from afar, and the prophetic words of Elendil, which Aragorn repeated, and the blessing of the Wizard seemed somehow far-off, as verse of forgotten lore. But looking upon Elessar as he arose, mighty as the sea-kings of old, was like an epiphany for Faramir; and when he heard someone cry out 'Behold the King!' he sensed it with all his heart, yet could hardly believe that those words had been uttered by his own lips.

And the King was acclaimed by his people, and elation was in all their hearts. But then everything went quiet for a moment, and a single Gondorian harp played as the white banner of the Stewards was slowly lowered. The melody sounded soft and sad to Faramir's ears, and he watched as, with veneration, the guards of the Citadel folded the argent cloth, which seemed diminished and no longer a proud standard. That was the way it should be, Faramir thought. He felt no resentment or discontent, only a bittersweet emotion, like he used to feel turning the last page at the ending of a long tale of heroism and glory.

One of the captains of the guard presented the folded banner to the King, bowing low. Elessar took it from the man's arms, as he had Faramir's rod earlier, and held it for all to see. And he opened his mouth again, and everyone listened attentively to all that he spoke.

'People of Gondor, ye all have seen this banner come down from the top of the White Tower, where it stood with honour. Long has it flown over this realm, and today a more ancient standard has come to take its place. But I say to you,' and Elessar placed it carefully in the Steward's trembling arms, 'that the White Banner shall continue to be held in reverence, and it shall flutter over the palace of the Lord Faramir, and all shall behold it and remember the great deeds that have been achieved under this standard.

'In the time of our forefathers, when the Southern line of kings failed, it was only the wisdom of the Stewards which preserved this realm, by their wit and by their swords, and often with the price of their sons' blood. Great men rose out of the House of Húrin, and the last that ruled over you was no less.' The praising allusions to his brother and his father didn't escape Faramir. 'Gondor,' the King went on, 'has yet need of the wise counsel and the valiant arm of her Stewards. Yea, the White Banner shall fly on, and the White Rod shall be wielded by the side of the Sceptre of Annúminas that ye see here in my hand.'

Then Faramir was glad, for he perceived that the return of the King was not an ending, but an alteration that only brought improvement and fulfilling. And he was surprised when, encouraged by Elessar himself, the assembly applauded, and they acclaimed the name of Lord Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. For the people loved him well.

Faramir stepped back, his heart beating fast, and, in front of the entrance to the City, he felt a gentle hand creep under his arm, and looking to his right he saw Éowyn besides him, pale and fair, but no longer cold or distant. And he felt her trembling with joy and excitement, and the same sweet shiver washed over him, and he knew that what she felt now for Aragorn was the same awe and admiration that he himself was feeling, and that all her love was turned not to the magnificent yet unreachable King, but to his Steward. And Éowyn looked at Faramir and smiled, and in his thoughts he thanked the Valar again for all the blessings that he had received.

Then their attention was drawn again to Elessar, as he went forth, and, while all the trumpets were blown, Húrin of the Keys thrust the barrier back. The banner of the Kings had been spread, and Faramir beheld it, sable and displaying the image of the White Tree of Gondor, in bloom beneath seven shining stars. And it was said that this magnificent standard had been woven by the immortal hand of Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond the Half-Elven, master of Imladris. Long did Faramir observe it, the symbol of royalty and of the new Gondor that was to flower again, and his heart was filled with loyalty to his King and his banner.

And amid the music of harp and of viol and of flute and the singing of clear voices the King passed through the flower-laden streets, and came to the Citadel, and entered in; and the banner of the Tree and the Stars was unfurled upon the topmost tower, and the reign of King Elessar began, of which many songs have told.

~. ~ . ~ THE END ~ . ~ . ~

Hope you enjoyed! Reviews and constructive criticism are greately appreciated! :)