1. Ten Thousand Years
“Kingdom?” twelve-year-old Boromir said under his breath. “They are counted kings when the Steward is not? What folly is this!”
Seven-year-old Faramir heard and, smiling, whispered, “Faramir and Boromir, Kings of Gondor!”
“You shall never be king,” Denethor said sharply.
“Father is correct,” Boromir turned to his brother with a smirk. “I would be king, not you. I am the eldest.”
Denethor planted his fists on Boromir's writing-table and spoke earnestly. “You shall never be king, Boromir my son. Never. Put that evil thought far from your heart. Your duty, your glory, is to rule with the wisdom of the King in the City of Kings until the King come again. We are not usurpers, we are stewards. Mine is a borrowed authority but it is nonetheless mine. Were you to claim the Kingship, you would cut yourself off from the authority that is yours by right and your reward would be with Castamir in the Halls of Mandos.”
“Could not the Valar send another to renew the Kingship, one who surpassed the kings of old?”
Denethor glowered, but Boromir heedlessly continued. “If a mighty one rose up and fulfilled Eanur's quest, what then? Even you would hail that one King, Father, if he returned triumphant in Eanur's stead.”
“I would do no such thing.”
Faramir frowned. When Boromir deigned to play with him anymore, he insisted on being Eanur. Though still a child, Faramir began to understand his brother, and he was frightened. Denethor's eyes glittered with a fury Faramir had never seen before. Could Boromir not see what Father was telling him? Being a steward of Gondor was a higher glory than any mortal title – save one, and that one was no more. But in his heart, Faramir knew Boromir would never be content with a lesser station, even when the nobler line was long dead.
Boromir pressed on. “It has been twenty-six generations! Even to the Valar, it is long! How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king return not?”
Father stood regally. “Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice.”
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.