March 11
3019
'Much must be risked in war.' Denethor's voice was cold and dead. 'I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is still a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will.'
Faramir stiffened slightly at the words. When he spoke, his voice had a slight quiver. 'I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead.' He paused, then continued, sounding only slightly more hopeful. 'If you command it.'
The Steward stared flatly at his son. 'I do so.'
Faramir drew in a trembling breath. ' Then farewell,' he bowed, then paused before turning to go. 'If I should return, think better of me, father.'
Denethor continued to stare flatly, though his reply was tinged with anger. ' That will depend on the manner of your return.'
The younger man walked out of the hall, his posture still that of a soldier, but there was a sag to his head and shoulders that radiated defeat to the pity-filled eyes that watched him go. Though not all eyes followed him; many were downcast, too full of shame and rage that the Steward should treat his son in this manner to look up. Only one pair of eyes remained on the Steward, watching as Denethor suddenly looked at his son, started to stand, to say something, but almost instantly subsided, momentarily closing his eyes and pressing his hand to his head as if in pain. When the Steward looked up again, his face was once again a cold mask, and it seemed nothing had changed. Only the single pair of blue eyes, belonging to a soldier standing off to the side, had noticed the fleeting struggle. The soldier's face was a carefully trained mask, but his eyes were filled with confusion and sadness.
His inward cry 'My lord, what has happened to you? Who is responsible for this?' came out as no more than a small sighing breath.
o0o
October 2971
The crisp autumn air smelled of snow. It was a perfect morning to ten-year-old Tatharion's mind, and apparently the young horse he was watching agreed with him, blowing frosty clouds of breath as he ran and frisked about the paddock.
He'd seen this horse a couple of times before, but always from a distance. Tatharion had deliberately taken the time to look for him this morning, and wasn't disappointed. The colt was a chestnut, though more of a honey color than a true red, with a flaxen mane and tail. A broad blaze and four perfect white stockings completed the package of one of the most beautiful horses he'd ever seen.
Tatharion leaned on the fence and stuck his head between the fourth and fifth rails, completely happy with the cold and the horses. As absorbed as he was in the thudding hooves and twisting muscles of the colt, he didn't hear footsteps aproaching.
' What do you think of him?'
The unexpected sound made Tatharion jump, and a small yelp of pain and surprise escaped him as he bashed his head on the fifth rail of the fence. He disentangled himself as quickly as he could and turned to see who had spoken.
A tall man with black hair, dressed in the uniform of a soldier stood behind him. 'I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you. Is your head hurt?' he asked, sounding truly concerned.
Tatharion managed a small smile. 'Not much, sir.'
The soldier smiled back. 'I'm glad. Who are you?'
'Tatharion, my lord; son of Porelon. Milord,' he added for good measure, uncertain of whom he was addressing.
The soldier laughed, a friendly laugh, not sounding superior at all, and went to lean on the fence. 'Well?' he asked. 'What do you think of him?'
Tatharion stepped up on the first rail and stood on his toes so he could cross his arms on the top one. He was at the annoying height where the fourth rail was exactly in his line of vision, he either had to duck or stretch if he wanted a clear view into the paddock. His mother had laughingly told him he looked a bit like a chicken with all the bobbing and ducking he did trying to see around the rails.
'He's beautiful, sir. What's his name?'
'Culas.'
'Culas,' Tatharion whispered. 'He's not from Rohan, is he? He doesn't look like it, he seems too... well, long! His face and ears, see? And he doesn't have feathers on his legs.'
The soldier glanced down at him. 'You're nearly right. His sire is a Rohan stallion, but he looks more like his dam. She was one of ours.'
Culas had stopped jumping around, seeming to have worked off his excess energy; and now he came over to see them, sniffing and nudging their faces and hands. 'Morning, lad,--hi, stop that! Let go!'
Tatharion couldn't help laughing as the soldier tried to save himself from the horse, who had decided to try and eat his hair.
Culas backed away tossing his head, a hurt expression on his face. 'You great moron,' the soldier growled in mock anger.
'Is he yours, my lord?' Tatharion asked.
'Not for much longer, if he keeps this up!'
Tatharion glanced quickly at the soldier's face, but relaxed when he saw that the man was joking.The soldier started to say something, but glanced instead at the sun and sighed. 'Well, Tatharion, I must be off. Farewell, and take care around this mad horse!'
Tatharion jumped off the fence. 'Farewell, my lord.'
The soldier walked away, but before he turned the corner he looked back and dipped his head slightly, then was gone.
o0o
March 11
3019
It was only later that my father found out that his 'soldier' was, in fact, the lord Denethor.
I have a very faint memory of the horse Culas, my father took me to see him one day, long ago. Of course, Culas was no longer the horse he was in my father's story, he was now very old and his beautiful coat was no longer the color of honey in the sun, but he was well cared for and still very friendly and alert.
My father told me something that day that I don't think I shall ever forget. ' You can often tell the quality of a man by his horse, Iniron,' he said. 'If the horse is frightened or vicious, there's a good chance his master is a bad sort. It takes a good man to make a good horse.'
And Culas was a good horse; one of the best.
My father never believed many of the harsh rumors about the man who is now our Steward. He served under him in the military, and they were actually on friendly terms, as much as it was possible. He said Denethor was often stern and quiet, but not cruel. In fact, he was responsible for my getting a place in the Tower Guard. Father told him of my aspirations and Denethor put in a good word for me.
Father was killed two years ago in a skirmish near Ithilien. The lord Denethor came by himself to give his condolances to my mother.
All my life, but especially since joining the Tower Guard, I've seen lord Denethor in a wide range of moods, but I have no explanation for his recent behavior. This past year, but most especially since the lord Boromir left, not to return if the rumors be true (gods grant that they aren't!) Denethor has changed, and not for the better. He never was what one could truly call 'open' but it is as if he has gradually grown a shell around himself and retreated--no, that is not the right word, sunk into it. Or perhaps been drawn. However it is, he is hardly recognizable as the same man in my father's stories. When he does come out, he is irrational, and that worries me. One could call the lord Denethor a lot of things, but he was never irrational. Far from it, he was brilliant. No one ever out-foxed him.
Now he's not only irrational, but cruel. He's been reserved as long as I've known him, often taken to be cold, but this blatant cruelty is something new entirely. I don't understand it...