Lost to Me
As Faramir bowed and left his audience, a sigh of loss escaped Denethor.
Finduilas...the boy is almost the mirror image of you. I cannot stand it, recalling what his life cost.
Yours.
What need had he for a second son? Wealth was seen in such births but Denethor would rather a daughter and Finduilas alive. Rid me of this infernal curse! To endure the loss and gain of her child is an agony none should be forced to bear. There should only have been Boromir.
Only his firstborn.
"The Valar have blest us," declared Denethor as he set proud eyes on his newborn son. "He is a testament to Gondor itself. A true son of the city!"
Finduilas, wearied by the ordeal, touched a hand to the child she'd borne for her lord. "Noble blood runs through him. I could ask for no greater treasure than what I have already received."
"With a son, I am content. The next child may be a daughter," said Denethor indulgently.
A mirthful laugh escaped from Finduilas. "At your wish, my lord"
"Boromir...a fine name, is it not?" he said cradling his precious heir. "His destiny shall be great. When I join my fathers, he shall take my place as Steward and may he lead Gondor well! No other fate could be more deserved for the son of Denethor and Finduilas." Denethor laid his son beside his dear wife, noting the shadows of fatigue that were growing in her face. "Rest and regain your strength, my beloved," said Denethor, leaving a kiss on her damp brow. "The people of Gondor will wish to see you among them again. Great rejoicing will follow this birth."
A smile graced Finduilas' lips. "As my lord commands," she murmured, drifting off to sleep under the Steward's protective watch.
He'd been given all he'd needed. Why then had it been forced from him with such vehemence- first beloved Finduilas and then proud Boromir?
What crime have I committed that bears so great a punishment?
By his losses, his very heart had been torn out.
When Finduilas died in childbirth, Denethor had no heart to see the product of her death.
"A son! A son, my lord!" the midwives declared in joy. "He lives yet!" Then they brought Faramir to him. From that first look, Denethor could already see the traces of Finduilas in him and hardened his heart against this child-curse. "See to him yourselves," he ordered crossly, choosing instead to sit vigil beside his deceased wife.
The midwives murmured uneasily in confusion. Why did their lord desire not to rejoice in the birth of his second son? Finduilas had been lost almost from the start and Faramir had nearly died as well. Why did he not accept what the Valar had bestowed on him? Faramir's survival was a true blessing.
Their words were not lost to Denethor and he grew more sour as he heard them. Finduilas was dead. Why should he rejoice in the birth that had destroyed her? This was not his true son.
He gazed on the face of fair Finduilas, who had died with a smile in the knowledge that she had died bearing another son.
A son, Denethor wished to the ends of the world, that might have died rather than Finduilas.
Faramir. Even his very name must bring echoes of loss. His life was a tribute to living agony, grief to bear at everyday.
No hope until he dies.
No hope.