The weak but ecstatic smile she had given him after Boromir had finally been delivered...
Sometimes, when he fell prey to self-despising moods, he wondered at how she could have loved him as she had. True, in his youth, he had possessed fine features which had, in addition to his status as the Steward's son, earned him the attention of many a pleasant woman; but when he had met Finduilas, his face had already been showing subtle signs of age. But her, oh, no, she had been in the blossom of youth... The twinkle in her eyes as she had danced with him at her father's court, that beautiful summer evening...
She had never stopped longing for the sea; he knew that. Whenever he had inquired, during their marriage, as to whether it would please her to visit her brother in Dol Amroth, she had granted him a loving smile, and said, "Oh, no. How could I leave you to face those grim counsellors all on your own? No, no, it can wait, don't you worry about me." He wondered with painful regret, if he had insisted, been more attentive to her, not allowed politics to claim priority in his mind, whether she might not have passed away so soon. Perhaps one quick journey to inhale the salty air was all it would have taken to save her...
The desire she had awakened within him, with her coaxing touch and amorous kisses, and the delicate curves of her body; he could still remember every detail of their wedding night, and yet he felt worlds away from the bliss they had shared together, worlds away from her...
Dawn would come soon, and with it the new day. He would have to tuck away his grief and longing into a hidden recess of his mind, and face life. Mordor's advancing armies, futile decisions, irritating counsellors, reports of raids... his family, too, or whatever ruins were left of it. He knew he had abandoned his sons, to a certain extent, but it was too late to attempt mending broken relationships. They were grown-up now, anyway, and it was natural for there to be a certain gulf between children and parents, was it not? Boromir groaned whenever he spoke too fondly to him, and begged him not to be such a ridiculous old man. He only ever had a handful of spare moments to greet his father and ask after his welfare between riding off to battles and Orc raids. But Faramir...
Faramir always had time for him. When the two were summoned before dawn and Boromir could not be woken, the younger brother never failed to appear, always punctual. Somehow, he took his second-born for granted. He had sat fervently hoping for Boromir's birth, and been tremendously grateful the boy had survived the first few tenuous years of infancy, but Faramir had just... happened. No necessity of an heir, no responsibilities of providing a future Steward, no reason for them to conceive another child; no reason, that is, other than love...
He hated Faramir because he made it so fundamentally impossible to hate him. And when he spoke harsh words to him, the imploring look in his eyes was overbearing. Father, please, notice me, before it is too late, please, all I am asking for is your approval, if only one kind word...
It was all too reminescent of the way Finduilas had glanced at him in her latter years, when her health had begun to dwindle. No reproach, only a silent begging for attention and love.
Oh, he could lie there for a while longer, losing himself in the past... At least the searing pain of his heart repeatedly breaking was worth seeing her face again, if only for a fleeting moment. Any form of remembrance was better than forgetting his Finduilas.
It had been over thirty years since his mother's death, and though he sorely missed her, he had long ago accepted her passing.
He had been ten years old at the time, an arrogant, mischievous boy, whose favourite pastime had been fighting his brother with wooden swords, and always winning. (He had never deemed himself at an advantage, for though Faramir was a foot shorter and clumsy with a weapon, he was definitely very good at reading - unlike himself - and somehow that compensated for physical disabilities, because the elder brother was absolutely certain that one could learn a great deal about swordfighting in tomes and that they were therefore at equal standards.) He had not noticed his mother's condition - to his memory, she had always been frail - until she had truly taken ill. Those months had been gloomy ones, spent listening at doors while healers gave honest diagnostics and fervently praying for a recovery which did not come. His mother had been a very gentle presence, he recalled most vividly. She had always been there for him; when she had died, he had felt dreadfully lost and disorientated. Eventually, he had found his footing, and grown into an independent young man, his spirit strengthened by the loss of a maternal figure. He did not spare much thought for her - not out of neglect, but he was a man of the moment, he did not spend his time pondering over the past, or the future.
But when he did take a quiet moment to remember his mother, it was not rare for a tear to discreetly roll down his cheek.
Finduilas. She was more of a name than a person, in his mind; he had composed a memory of her with the help of fragments people had provided him with and his own imagination. Having been merely a young child when she passed away, he had no solid recollections of his mother to latch onto. To him, she was a myth, a fairy tale, a being from another world. And yet he could still sense her presence everywhere, haunting those who had held her dear. His own inadequacy struck him when others mourned Finduilas, or spoke of her, for he of all people should have grieved her the most - it was generally known that if she had not nursed him with undivided attention, he might have perished, being a sickly infant - yet he could not muster even the simplest authentic memory of her.
At times, when Denethor had been particularly cruel to him, and he would take to his chambers and allow himself a few quiet moments of self-pity, he wondered whether the Steward would still despise him if Finduilas were alive. But he would never know, because she was no longer among the living; and he knew nothing about her, except that which he had learned second-hand, through the mouths of fond relatives or the tears in his father's eyes.