Funeral of Hearts
The oncoming light became too much for ageing eyes. Denethor's hand shook. He took his arms away from around his sons so that they could not also feel the trembling. This day was to be hard enough for them as it was, without them thinking their father an emotional fool. He took a deep breath and turned back to his boys. "Come, my sons. We must go now." Denethor had been looking at the world's Sun rise, but now he walked towards the setting of his own.
Denethor knew Finduilas had wanted a dawn funeral. She always loved to watch the Sun rise; she had said it reminded her of home, only that she could not see the reflection of the Sun in the Sea, only the slight glimmer of the Anduin. Denethor led his sons; who were far too young to suffer such a loss, along Rath Dínen, towards the House of Stewards. The tomb of Finduilas was prepared for the ceremony.
The funeral masters of the city gathered about the tomb. Denethor said no words at the ceremony, for he knew he would do naught but choke on them. Beneath the heavy black cloak wrapped about him he was pale. Since the death of his wife he had been lost. He did not know how to treat his sons. He felt further from them each day. He knew that Boromir looked after his younger brother, but he knew also that he should be the one to look after them. He thought to himself that it would be better for the boys if this was his entombment and not their mother's. He drew his boys close to him, Boromir on his left, Faramir on his right. A minstrel of the White Tower sang a dirge while Denethor tried vainly to keep his composure. He knew his boys were crying. He knew he should comfort them, but he could not. There was no one now to comfort him.
Denethor stepped forward slightly, with some intent, but stopped. He turned away from the tomb; the thought of Finduilas lying there cold was too much. He saw his sons. Boromir held onto Faramir as they both wept as only children could. Denethor closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. It hurt enough that his wife had died without having to see his sons suffer in such a way. He walked towards the boys and knelt in front of them. Boromir sniffed somewhat, looking at his father, whereas Faramir continued to weep. Denethor looked at his youngest son. Though young he already much resembled his mother. Denethor pushed a stray strand of his son's raven hair behind his small ear. He wiped the tears on his son's cheek although they did not stop flowing. Denethor looked at Boromir. His cheeks glistened too, although his face was sterner than his brother's. He shook his head, "My sons…," the words no more than a whisper escaped his grieving lips. The sleeves of Denethor's cloak swept his sons in a close embrace. He could feel Boromir's tense body relax and Faramir's young arms grasp at his own. Denethor's eyes closed tightly, tears spilling freely from them. "She is at peace now." He spoke the words to comfort his sons, but it was as though he did not understand the concept he wished to convey, "At peace…"
The End