She woke as he closed the door to her chamber and approached the bed. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she glanced at the window to judge the time. “You were long looking in on our sons tonight, my beloved lord husband.”
“I crave your pardon, Finduilas, but I admit I tarried tonight in Faramir’s rooms. He was restive, between the brightness of the Moon and the new tooth he is cutting, and his nurse had lifted him from his cot to carry him up and down the room. She told me he kept reaching for the moonlight, as if he could hold it in his little hands. When I looked within, I was struck by the sight of his head, silhouetted against the window, with the circle of the Moon behind it. It was as if it formed a nimbus about him.”
“That is most strange and wonderful, for I just woke from quite the dream about our younger son, Denethor. In it he was a man grown, tall and noble, and crowned with a circlet of moonstones, clad in a milky white that caught Ithil's glory. And he stood at the side of a great Lord and Lady, both crowned with living stars, and they embraced our son with great affection.”
“Boromir did not appear in this dream?”
“He did, but as a spectator, as if he watched from a great distance. But he watched with full joy, standing with Anor’s hand upon his shoulder. I wonder what such a dream might foretell?”
Denethor shrugged. He slipped under the bed coverings and placed his arm about her thin shoulders.