Yet another story that I've had sitting in My Documents but for some reason hadn't gotten around to posting here. This was originally written for Ringprov challenge #22.
Disclaimer: I don't own the sandbox, I just like to play in it.
Shadow on Stone
-
The Steward of Gondor could often be found slowly pacing the battlements at night, consumed in thoughts that no one else in the City desired to intrude upon. Lord Denethor was a respected man, but few envied his duties as caretaker of Gondor, for the land seemed to be steadily approaching a time of even greater turmoil. Soldiers were uneasy, women feared for their sons and husbands; all could sense the shadow that flickered ever closer to the Tower of Guard.
But on that late autumn's eve, Denethor could perceive a shadow that had already found its way to the depths of the Citadel, that had plunged into the very soul of the Steward.
Finduilas was dead, and Denethor was to blame.
Or so he had interpreted the tragedy. He had plucked the fairest flower of Dol Amroth and forced its roots into the cobblestones of Minas Tirith. He had allowed the winds of the East to blast at the precious petals with their foul drafts, until all had been torn and scattered with only the echoes of a life lived in joy.
Denethor had witnessed this deterioration, but he had been selfish. He had overestimated his power of care-taking, believing that he could make Finduilas happy behind these stone walls, though they be far out of reach of the Sea's caresses which she had so longed for.
He had thought his love to be enough.
Now the Steward's boots scraped against the rough stone upon which he had flung his beautiful ocean bird, breaking her wings and the promise of freedom. Now he was faced with the bitterness of his adoration for that which he could not save.
He was exhausted. For twelve long years he had struggled to bring back the smile that had first caught his eye and his heart. And for twelve long years that smile had become more and more scarce, while the face which had held it grew thin and weary. Grey eyes had looked ever southward, hoping for distraction from the malice that clouded in the East.
Denethor turned his own eyes on the stone pathways at his feet. Shame and disgust gnawed at his heart, shame and disgust for the crime he had committed against the one he had loved. Finduilas had given him her hand, her heart, and two healthy sons. In return, Denethor had given her a prison.
There had been a time, when he was a lad, that he had looked upon his city with pride, its gleaming walls stirring a sense of wonder in his heart.
But the white stones of Minas Tirith had grown dim and grey that night. And to Denethor's eyes, they would never shine again.