Boromir set out with a company, heading straight for Osgiliath. This new garrison would remain stationed in the abandoned city for the long term, keeping close watch on Minas Morgul and the movements of the Witch-king at the very front line.
After Boromir's departure, Denethor left the tower where the palantír was kept and took a moment to visit his other son.
Faramir.
He had been born five years after Boromir and was now fifteen.
Between his two sons, it was clear that Denethor showed a certain favoritism; he placed greater hopes on Boromir.
Because...
"Father, you're here."
As soon as he saw Denethor approach, Faramir, who had been reading, smiled and immediately rose to greet him.
"Indeed. I came to see how you've been faring lately," Denethor replied evenly.
"I'm doing very well, Father."
Very well, indeed.
Looking at the refined and gentle Faramir, Denethor's lips twitched slightly.
Boromir and Faramir looked alike, but their personalities were entirely different.
Unlike Boromir, Faramir had never been interested in fighting or adventure. He preferred reading and learning, and he loved music, both listening and singing.
Though tall and well-built, he seemed too genteel, and his temperament was somewhat delicate.
Because of that, many people thought the Steward's younger son lacked the courage of his elder brother.
Denethor said, "Your brother is heading to the front lines, eager to prove himself."
"I wish him a victorious return," Faramir said sincerely.
Denethor nodded.
His younger son might be gentle, but he was undeniably a good child. He never cared about comparisons between himself and Boromir, nor did he strive to outdo anyone.
The two brothers had never been rivals; they had always shared a close bond.
"Keep working hard. I place great hopes in both you and your brother," Denethor said, clasping Faramir's shoulder before leaving.
Good. These two were his hopes, the future of their house.
One strong, one gentle, perhaps a fitting balance.
Still, a ruler could not afford to be too soft.
Shaking his head slightly, Denethor walked slowly toward the great hall atop the tower to convene another council.
If there was anyone in the world who could most directly feel the growing strength of Sauron, it was Denethor.
In recent years, the pressure emanating from the palantír had grown heavier, the shadow within it darker.
The Enemy's return was accelerating.
Under Denethor's orders, the guards around the tower that housed the palantír had been strengthened, not to protect the stone itself, but to protect everyone else.
Knowing the danger it carried, Denethor would not permit anyone to touch it, not even his own sons.
For anyone else, even a single accidental glance into the stone could be enough to overwhelm them, dragging them into nightmares.
Exhale.
When the latest Gondorian council finally ended, Denethor let out a long breath and closed his eyes.
Still manageable.
He could still endure.
"Then let it continue," he murmured. "Let me see which of us meets destruction first..."
---
"Gondor will not fall, not before I do."
"I can't believe such momentous news escaped me," said Thorin, frowning beneath his now-graying beard inside the Lonely Mountain.
"Exactly," Balin added. "He told us not to reclaim Khazad-dûm, yet he's gone off to attack Angmar himself!"
But Fíli quickly countered, "That's not the same thing. Garrett must have his reasons for forbidding the expedition to Moria."
"I know, I know," Balin sighed. "I just... don't quite know how to put it. Shouldn't we go and help him?"
At that, everyone present for the small meeting fell silent.
"This time is different," Thorin said cautiously. "This campaign was initiated by Garrett himself, not forced upon him. If we rush in recklessly, we might only interfere and disrupt his plans."
After some thought, Thorin suggested, "Perhaps we should ask the acting lord of Dale. Surely he's received word of this."
Had he...?
Remembering Garrett's usual way of conducting matters, the Dwarves were uncertain.
Still, after so many years, their old friend had indeed matured. His decisions and strategies had become much more seasoned.
"Don't worry."
In Dale, the grey-haired Bain spoke on Garrett's behalf.
"I discussed it with Garrett earlier. He said we just need to hold our own and guard this side well."
"That's good to hear."
Thorin nodded, finally setting his mind at ease.
On the other side of the mountains, Elrond shared the same thought.
As one of the forces most closely allied with the Dúnedain, Elrond had already sensed what was happening when Aragorn began rallying his people.
At first, the wise Elf-lord, bearer of Vilya, had considered lending some aid. But someone told him it wasn't necessary, and, true to his word, Elrond refrained from intervening.
Of course, that didn't mean he trusted blindly or was truly that naive. It was just... it really didn't seem necessary.
Since this movement belonged to Men, then let Men handle it themselves.
Silently, Elrond offered his blessing.
Blessings, after all, are always beautiful things.
Elsewhere, too, someone was offering blessings to a loved one.
"You must live well, Frodo. We love you."
The Shire, in Tuckborough.
The homeland of the Took family. Frodo sat beside the bed, tears falling one after another as he looked at his mother.
"My dear Frodo, I'm proud of you."
That year, Drogo's wife passed away, her heart worn down by endless grief and longing for her husband.
Primula Baggins (2920–2998).
Frodo erected her gravestone himself.
From then on, he was alone.
But sorrow is not the whole of life, nor should it be its main melody.
Carrying the warm blessings of those who had gone before him, Frodo lifted his head toward the sunlight and the wide, green earth.
"You've grown, Frodo."
In Hobbiton, at Bag End, Bilbo sighed as Frodo came to visit once again.
He remembered, when he was about Frodo's age, his own parents had passed away, leaving him alone in the empty smial of Bag End.
Then, after a bit of food and song, an old wizard had come and spirited him away on an adventure.
He should've smacked that old wizard harder back then, Bilbo thought with a wry grin.
Frodo smiled at Bilbo's teasing.
Now that his parents were gone, this guy before him was the person dearest to him in all the world.
To Frodo, Bilbo was a charming soul, full of stories, full of mystery. He had always been that way, even now, with secrets still hidden somewhere behind his bright eyes.
"By the way, Frodo," Bilbo suddenly said, calling him back from his thoughts.
He took a deep breath. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while... but I never seem to find the right time."
"What is it?"
After a moment's silence, perhaps to give Frodo time to prepare, or perhaps to gather courage himself, Bilbo spoke slowly:
"Actually, these past few years I've been thinking... I've been thinking, well, what do you think of Bag End?"
Halfway through his sentence, Bilbo changed direction abruptly.
"It's wonderful, truly," Frodo replied, a little puzzled.
"That's good," Bilbo said with a sigh, his gaze turning distant and complicated.
He still couldn't bring himself to say what he truly intended.
But Frodo wasn't blind or dull; sensing something amiss, he immediately asked, "What's wrong? Is something bothering you?"
"Bothering me? Yes, quite a few things, actually..."
At Frodo's urging, Bilbo shared the worries that had been weighing on him lately.
"The Sackville-Bagginses, how can they be so awful?"
When Frodo heard the whole story, he couldn't help but curse from the bottom of his heart.
That family had spread rumors of Bilbo's death when he was away adventuring, tried to seize Bag End, even auctioned off his furniture! And even after Bilbo returned, they still wouldn't stop pestering him, not until Garrett had warned them personally to behave.
And even then, they hadn't truly given up. They were still waiting, every day, hoping Bilbo would drop dead so they could move in by right.
"Frodo," Bilbo said quietly, "in the past, I loved peace, the freedom of solitude, the quiet of being left alone. I hated interruptions."
"But now... I've had too much of it. It's like food. Eat too much of the same thing, and you grow sick of it. In the end, it turns your stomach."
Frodo sat silently for a long while, listening.
"I understand," he finally said.
After another pause, Bilbo looked down at the half-finished book on the table before him, and, as if coming to a decision, said softly:
"Frodo, I think I..."
That day, they talked for a long time.
Not long afterward, Frodo gave up his lonely little home and moved into Bag End to care for his aging uncle.
And soon after that, Bilbo formally named Frodo as the heir to his estate.
When the Sackville-Bagginses heard the news, it was as if a thunderbolt had struck from a clear sky. The last of their hopes had been utterly shattered.
Their dream had collapsed.