We Need to Talk About Denethor
"After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
TS Eliot, Gerontion
Minas Tirith, in the Fourth Age
They had known that this conversation would have to happen one day. In truth, they were both somewhat surprised that it had taken so long. They had always been painfully aware that the children lacked grandparents – not that there weren't plenty of other friends and kinsfolk to fill the gaps – but between them they lacked much in the way of memories to pass on. Three parents dead by their early forties. And then the other…
They'd tried their very best to present a fair image of the man, one that the children could respect, if not love. Faramir had made an effort to recall gentler moments between them – the quiet games of chess, the times when one of them would finish the other's quotation and they would each smile at the shared knowledge – but these were so interwoven with the deep and often bitter regret that it was easier to fall back on official history. Denethor's youthful valour, the later strategic brilliance… All common knowledge. But their children were not fools. It was hard to disguise that something was not right.
And they could not, of course, prevent others from speaking. On the whole, the full story was not well known. Yes, it was known that Denethor had taken his own life. Yes, it was known that the manner of his departure was particularly savage and cruel. But who knew that he had tried to take his son with him? A few close friends and relatives. The King and the Queen. Their Halfling friends. Beregond, of course. And a few old retainers, handsomely pensioned off rather than brought over from the old Steward's staff to serve the new Steward. Faramir had felt that he might have difficulty trusting them…
But some tales have a way of getting around. And one evening, in his twentieth year, Elboron returned to the Steward's House flushed and angry, and with the makings of a fine black eye. "I don't like to interfere in your affairs," said his father, passing down the hallway, nose in book, as the young man slammed the front door, "but I do feel obliged to ask you to avoid brawling."
"It wasn't a brawl—"
"You were looking the wrong way and tripped over a parapet. Easily done."
Bron was always so serious that Faramir sometimes adopted a policy of flippancy to get the boy to unwind a little. But this time jokes weren't making him laugh. Instead, Elboron was more distressed.
"Bron, what is it? What's the matter?"
"Someone said something about Grandfather!"
"Which one?" said Faramir, straight-faced.
His son went scarlet. "Father!"
"I'm sorry." Faramir gestured with the book he was carrying. "Go on."
Bron looked around, and then lowered his voice. "They said he took his own life."
"Did they?" Faramir went very still. "Who precisely is this source of information?"
"Turgon."
Faramir almost laughed. "Herion's son? He's an idiot. So is Herion, for that matter—"
"Father," Bron whispered, "he said Grandfather tried to murder you."
"Ah," said the Steward. He looked down at his book, which he had been enjoying. He snapped it shut, and put it down on a nearby table.
"It's not true, is it?" implored Bron. "I told him it wasn't true. He laughed, so I hit him—"
"Bron," said Faramir, rubbing his fingertips against his temple. "Could you go down to the kitchen, please, and ask them to send some tea to the library. Then round up your brother and sister and take them there. I'm going to find your mother. We'll join you shortly."
He found Éowyn in her parlour, working through some accounts.
"Love," he said. "It's time."
"What?" She peered at the window. "It's barely dark! You can go to bed if you want. I'm busy—"
"I mean, they're asking about Father," he said.
"Ah." She put down her pen. "Well. We knew this day was coming."
"I've sent them to the library." He pointed in the direction of the back door. "If we left now, we could be in Edoras by the end of the week. From there we strike north. They wouldn't miss us, not much—"
She took his hand and led him back towards the library. "They'd find us," she said grimly. "They're persistent."
They'd talked many times about how this conversation might go. About where they would hold it (their preference was Emyn Arnen, indisputably their territory). About how old the children should be (they couldn't leave it too late, but the little one was so much younger). About whether to mention the knife (he still woke in a cold sweat about that sometimes)…
Children, however, have their own agendas.
"Is this about the fire on the Silent Street?" said Léof, eleven years old and far wiser than his years should permit. He had got to the library first and taken up residence in the most comfortable chair.
"I beg your pardon?" said Éowyn, stopping halfway to sitting down.
"What do you know about that, Léof?" said Faramir. "And, more importantly – how?"
"I asked you once why our buildings were newer," said Léof, calmly, "and you said there was a fire. I assumed there was a story, and an important one, and that you'd get around to telling us eventually. And this all looks serious. So is this about that?"
"No," said Bron. "This is about grandfather."
"What about grandfather?" said Morwen. She peered at her brother. "Bron, have you been brawling?"
"It wasn't a brawl."
"What then? Did you trip—"
"No, I didn't trip over a parapet either."
"Morwen," said Mother, steel in her voice, "pour the tea."
"Isn't there anything to eat?" said Léof. "Mother, I'm famished!"
There was a short pause while the troops were provisioned. As Léof and Morwen made toast by the fire, Faramir took the opportunity to provide himself and his wife with stiff drinks. Bron was watching them furiously. Faramir poured a drink for him too. Why not?
"Is there any chance," he said, eventually, to his daughter and second son, "that you two might soon be ready to listen to me?"
Léof scrambled back to his seat, plate in hand. Morwen curled up on the carpet near her parents. Faramir looked down into his glass, then knocked back the contents in one go. Léof's eyes widened. "Steady on, Papa," he said. Éowyn did the same, but that was less worthy of note.
"Well," said Faramir. "Now. There's something we have to tell you. About your grandfather."
The three children looked at each other.
"And also about the fire," he said.
They all exchanged another look. Morwen put down her plate. "They're connected?"
"Yes," said Faramir.
Léof looked smug. "I knew there was a story."
Faramir took Éowyn's hand, and launched into a long-prepared speech. Quite a good speech, he thought, even by his standards. "For many years before his death," he said, "your grandfather had been looking into an ancient Númenorean device that Sauron used to warp his mind. My brother's death plunged him into a despair of the like that I had never seen, even in so stern a man. I was brought back injured from the battle and close to death myself. The city was on the verge of falling. And his mind was finally overthrown. He killed himself by building a pyre and setting it and himself alight. That's the fire, Léof. That's how the fire happened."
"I see," said Léof. He bit contemplatively into his toast.
"But, Father," said Bron, in an agonised voice, "Turgon said that—"
"Yes," said Faramir. "I'm getting to that."
"Turgon?" said Morwen. "Turgon's stupid, Bron, I don't know why you bother with him."
"Yes, but he said that grandfather tried to—"
"Perhaps," said Éowyn, "your father is better placed to explain than Lord Herion's idiot son?"
"Thank you, Éowyn. Unfortunately, on this occasion – and possibly for the first time in his life – Turgon has hit the mark. Your grandfather also intended for me to join him on his pyre."
His three beautiful children were staring at him.
"As you can see," Faramir went on, almost cheerfully, "he was entirely unsuccessful in this scheme."
Bron looked devastated. "How…" he said, "how were you saved?"
"By the courage and intervention of Master Peregrin, our own Beregond, and Mithrandir," said Faramir. "A peerless combination. They took me to the Houses of Healing, where I got well, and where your mother and I met. You know that story. But now you know what happened before."
Bron was staring down into his glass. Morwen had her hand over her mouth and had gone very pale. Léof was scratching his head.
Not the knife, Faramir thought. We won't tell them about the knife. Éowyn, catching his eye, shook her head. Not the knife.
"You're all very quiet," he said, uneasily, looking around. "You've not been this quiet since…" He glanced at his wife.
"They've never been this quiet," confirmed Éowyn.
The silence continued. Léof had put down his plate. Morwen had wrapped her arms around her knees and was chewing her lower lip. Bron was… Well.
"Do you have any questions?" he said. "Any of you?"
"Yes," said Bron, in a rough voice. "I do. Father, are you all right?"
"Oh, Bron…" murmured Eowyn.
"Me?" Faramir put his hand on his chest. He was genuinely surprised at the question. "I'm fine, Bron. I wasn't for a while, just afterwards. But I am now and have been for a long time. Are you all right?"
"I don't know," said the Steward's heir. His father's heart went out to him. So proper, his son. So concerned about tradition, and honour, and family, and doing the right thing… This was going to need some repair.
"Thank goodness for Pippin," said Léof. He reached for another piece of toast. "And Beregond."
"I think I love Beregond more than ever," said Morwen. She had shifted round to rest her head upon her father's knee, but she looked up briefly to peer at her mother. "Mother, when did you find out?"
"Good question," Faramir said, and turned to her. "Éowyn?"
"I heard some at the time, from Master Meriadoc," she said. "You told me the rest, later."
"Did I? Was that before or after you agreed to marry me?"
"Now I think about it… after."
They smiled at each other. Morwen snorted. Gently, Faramir stroked his girl's long dark hair. She reached up and took his hand. His wife on one side, his daughter on the other. He suddenly felt intensely happy. Then he looked over at Bron, frowning down into his glass.
"What I want you to remember most of all," Faramir said, softly, "is that your grandfather was a brilliant, valiant man who never surrendered."
He knew he had Elboron's attention now, even if the boy wouldn't look at him yet.
"Grief and loss," he went on, "and the Enemy's relentless scheming, overthrew his mind in the end, but that was not the whole of the man. He served Gondor for years during its most difficult time."
Elboron flushed.
"And I am proud to be his son," he finished. Bron looked up at him then. Faramir tightened his hand around Éowyn's. Their boy... He smiled at him. Bron smiled back. He was the image of Boromir… It was the black eye that did it.
"What should I do, next time?" said Bron, uncertainly. "What should I say?"
"Say you already know everything about it," suggested Léof.
"Ask them what their grandfather did during the war," said Éowyn.
"Try not to hit anyone," pleaded Faramir.
"Unless it's Turgon," said Morwen.
"Even Turgon," said her father. "Especially Turgon."
Léof shoved a plate of toast onto Bron's knee. He perked up at the sight. Faramir turned to look at his wife. These children, he thought. How did we do this? She was shaking her head. I don't know. They… happened.
Relief washed over him. It was done. It was no longer to be dreaded. They had not and would not be harmed by the news. They were all too busy eating. Exasperated, he said, "Will somebody make me some toast?"
All three of them dived to supply. Softly, Éowyn began to laugh. She leaned across to him. "This," she murmured, "could easily be made to work to our advantage."
"It's only fair," he said. "We have been outnumbered for a while now."
She refilled their glasses. They clinked them together. Old campaigners. Living to fight another day.
Altariel, 17th August 2018