This was written largely because I have finally decided that while dysfunctional, Denethor did love Fara! This knocked on my door while writing another story, and well- when someone you love dies, you want something of theirs to remember them by. With Faramir… well, you read it! Not my best- but not bad!
Enjoy!
(insert usual disclaimers)
A Piece of Denethor
Servants were everywhere, tearing down the drab hangings, folding up the bedding and getting rid of the heavy old furniture. The windows were forced open- they had been shut for more than thirty years, so it was quite a chore. Fresh air stirred up the dust, spring sun shining off what was left of Lady Finduilas's touches to the dark chambers.
The Old Steward was dead, and so they were renovating the rooms for the King, and perhaps the Queen… if there was going to be one. Who knew? Rumor said she might even be an elf!
Faramir walked into the room, his quick eyes noting all that had been done. The servants watched him. Poor young lord. His whole life had been stood on its ear.
He looked around, feeling tears threatening to come.
"May I have a moment?" he asked, and the eldest woman shooed the others from the room.
She herded them down the hall, but turned back to watch the young man. She felt protective of him- after all, hadn't her she been his wet nurse? Hadn't she herself cared for him and loved him as dearly as any child of her own, though she couldn't show it?
He looked around the room, and she heard the heartbroken sob, and felt the pain herself.
"Oh, Ada." He whispered. "I'm so sorry."
He was suddenly on the floor, his arms hugging himself as if cold, rocking. The woman longed to gather him into her arms and cuddle him like a child, but she knew she couldn't.
As always, all she could do was watch his suffering in mute grief.
Faramir got up again, and walked to the dresser. The robes- all identical black furs- had been heaped on the floor, the boots were lying to the side. On top of this, there were Denethor's socks and such.
Hands trembling, Faramir took a pair of boots into his hands, hugging them to himself.
"I'll always remember you, Ada." He sobbed, curling up on the furs, holding onto the worn boots like they were the only thing holding him to life. "I loved you. I loved you!" He sobbed without tears, burying his face in the furs. They still smelt of his father, and it comforted him slightly.
Before her eyes, she saw Faramir grow old. He stood up, squared his shoulders, set his jaw.
"Goodbye, Ada." He said to the empty room, turning on his heel, he saw her in the door, and they looked at each other silently.
Still silent, he set the boots down.
They stood there, watching each other, wondering what to do. "I am sorry." She said, and he shrugged… She held her arms out, knowing that it was a breach of etiquette, knowing that she could very well lose her position, and knowing in the days of the Old Steward this would never be allowed… but she had to do something. He was her baby!
And then he was in her arms, and she was holding him as he sobbed.
"There, there, dear." She said soothingly.
"I didn't tell him I loved him." He choked. "I didn't tell him!"
"The old Lord knew." She said firmly. "And he loved you too, dearly at that!"
"How could you know that?" he asked. "He certainly never told me!"
"Sure, and did you not know the fuss he made before you'd come home?" she asked. "He would make us scurry 'round right proper, he would!" she said. "He'd have us tidy your rooms, and then he'd be sure that the food was what you liked. He'd send to the archives for books for you. And you probably didn't know this, but it was him as took care of your flowers when you were gone. Every day he'd go water them after council, and every treesday he would prune 'em." The young man sobbed heartbreakingly.
"But why didn't he ever tell me? Why?"
"Wasn't the type." She said. "There are those who say they love, and don't. Then there are those who never say it and do." She shrugged. "Denethor was one would never say it. Not even to your mother. He loved you, laddie buck. Never listen to the night monsters as say he didn't. They lie." He laughed a little to hear her speak as if he were still a little boy.
Faramir sighed and pulled back, smiling shakily. "Thank you, mother Leawyn." He turned away, his back ramrod straight.
"Farya!" she called after him. He stopped at hearing his nursery name. Bending down, ignoring the twinges of arthritis, she lifted the boots. "Take these here with you." She said. "He would want you to."
Slowly, uncertainly, he took them from her, again cradling them to his body as if they were the most precious thing on earth, and to him, those worn old boots were. They were a piece of the great man who was his Father.
"Th-thank you." The stammer he had lost as a child came back, and he blushed and turned away. Watching him go she smiled.
He was cut of the same cloth as Denethor- a good man, nay, a great man.
Shouting down the hall, she called her staff back. "Right then! Hariel, take those furs and such to the war relief center. It's what the master would say to do." Hariel lifted Denethor's clothing.
"Old Steward always would give his shirt off 'is back fer dis country!" the girl said. "A good man 'e was!"
"Aye, lass." Leawyn said. "One of the best."
If this new King had half as much quality as those Hurins, well, the country would do well enough with him.
Steelelf