by Sabaye Leyr
Summary: "My father would always whisper of the foolishness of love. 'All it shall ever do is cause pain if you make the mistake to love. The Orcs will take it all away from you, for there is no hope for man'," Denethor speaks of his father, his love for his sons, his wife, and why he tries to burn Faramir with him in the tomb of his ancestors.
"Alas, that these evil days shall be mine. The young perish and the old linger. That I should live to see the last days of my house." Theoden, The Two Towers
~~~
These days of March seem dawnless to me, and my soul is wretched and I have not a shred of sanity to cling to. With mad determination I order that my son be moved to the tombs..
My son. My flesh and blood, my only connection to my beloved Finduilas. My son, one of only three beings that I loved more than the world itself, is dying. My only living son.
Fire consumes him; he cries out and thrashes in his sleep. No more will I watch him suffer. No more do I hope that the Valar would take pity upon me and let me keep my final son. No more do I hope at all.
My dear Finduilas spent her last days among the living much like my dear Faramir. She screamed, she cried, she lashed out. Her body was set aflame from within, and she was ripped from me after days of sickness. I was left behind with young sons and no knowledge of how to care for them.
And the thought that I had allowed her to suffer for my own petty desire to keep her with me. That I will not allow to happen to Faramir. I only make mistakes once. And yet, I make the same over and over again, when it comes to my children. Naught one time did I whisper the words 'I love you,' to any of them. Faramir, Boromir, or Finduilas, and I am left to wonder if they ever cared for me at all. I am not given the luxury to ask, only to wonder and be driven mad by the idea that perhaps they did not care for me.
My father would always whisper of the foolishness of love when I was a child. 'All it shall ever do is cause pain if you make the mistake to love. The Orcs will take it all away from you, for there is no hope for man.' I believed him, and I followed his will. I did not love. I was not shown love. I was not taught how to love.
Then mine eyes fell upon Finduilas. Fair of face, she was, yes, but that is not what drew me to her. Her eyes, her icy, pale, fiery eyes held something I had never seen. Life. The burning desire to live, to live and make it worth while. Intelligence and personality, love and hate all at the same time, and then I knew that I had not been living. I discarded my father's false and foolish statement, and fell in love with sun-haired Finduilas of Dol Amroth.
The sun was bright and the morning chill when I wed Finduilas, who danced around with laughter, her long hair let loose with Simbelmyne flowers woven into it. Perhaps it was foreshadowing that those were the flowers that she had chosen to have in her hair. My father was as he had always been. Ecthelion II, proud, silent Steward of Gondor. He did not even show joy at this occasion.
After the ceremony, he pulled me aside.
"Denethor, my son," he said, gripping my shoulder tightly, "have you lost your senses? Tell me not that you care for this woman," Ecthelion whispered harshly in my ear.
"I do, father, I do. No more do I believe your talk of love. I am happy, and I shall always be happy, for I will always have Finduilas," I spoke back to him humbly, not wishing to rouse his anger. His gray brows drew down sharply as his lip thinned.
"She is a mortal. She will die, you will not always have her. You have no thought of the pain that will come when she passes. The Dark Lord will use her to get to you once you are Steward. Love is nothing but a weakness, used to down even the most powerful of enemies." He told me firmly, disappointment etched across his face.
I held his gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away. I deliberately went to stand by my beloved Finduilas, glaring over my shoulder at my father.
Two years later my dear Boromir was born. As I held him, my head was full of the glories he could do. Even as a tiny, gray-eyed baby, I knew my Boromir was meant for greatness. He reminded me of myself, especially as he grew older. He was bold and brash, roughly kind and adventurous. I was as happy as I could ever remember being; content just to sit and read the tales of old to my squirming child. My child who had no interest at all in the past, but in the future. Boromir was always looking to the horizon, never completely enjoying what he was doing at the time.
Then, when Boromir was only three winters old, my wife gave birth to a daughter. I can still remember the terror that gripped my heart that stormy night. Finduilas went into labor early, far too early. And it lasted too long. Because of the severity and surprise of the labor, I was allowed in the room. It was believed that Finduilas would not survive the night. But as Finduilas came inches from death, I still did not tell her I loved her. I stroked her hair, held her hand, but those words never left my lips.
Hours after it had begun, Alethiel was born. Finduilas fainted as soon as she was born and could not be roused for hours. Alethiel was small, far too small. Her head was covered in a soft layer of dark brown-blonde hair, and she had dark grey eyes like Boromir. Dark grey eyes like mine. Even as the midwife gave her to me to wipe off, she did not cry, only weakly flailed her arms. I watched, in cold-eyed fear, as my beautiful little girl passed from this world just as she had entered it.
Perhaps it is worse to see your child die as an infant. I loved her with all my heart the minute she came out of my wife's womb. As with Boromir, I could see the many possibilities of the great lady she would become--but none of them would never be true. I would never know if Alethiel would be tall or short, if she would run and tussle with Boromir, or stay inside and needlepoint with her mother.
That was the beginning of the trouble, I think. My father became even more arrogant. He said it was a sign of what was to come, and that he had no sympathy for me.
I told him that he had never had a child die, so he could not understand. And, I never spoke to him again unless there was official need. Now that I look back, I think my father regretted those words, but then again, I'll never know.
For weeks I was distraught over the passing of Alethiel. How could such a tiny, pretty little thing be taken by the gods? What use could they possibly have for her, when I needed her here?
The pain of the death of Alethiel faded when Faramir was born. Unlike my other two children, his eyes were bright blue and his hair dark blond, without a trace of my brown in it. I felt that he was smaller and lighter than Boromir as I held him, but the grip he had on my finger was tight.
I kept myself from dreaming of Faramir's future. Not after I had dreamed of Alethiel and had her taken from me. When Faramir was a little over a year old, my father passed and I became Steward of Gondor.
That title never took time away from my family. As they grew older, Faramir five and Boromir ten, showed their differences in temperment and personality. In Boromir, everyday I saw more and more of myself. He loved to explore, to practice swordfighting and archery, although he was never much good at the latter. He didn't care for maps or stories or books--he wanted an adventure of his own. I never worried about Boromir-- he was strong and capable. I believed in him as I believed in myself.
Faramir, on the other hand, spent much of his time reading and studying maps. But he was an good swordsman and an excellent bowman by the time he became old enough to learn. He was softspoken and kind, and inspiried fierce loyalty from his childhood friends. He was like Finduilas, in looks and personality.
People always think that Boromir was my favorite son. This is as far from the truth as you can go-- I love both my sons dearly. I had faith in Boromir. He was the one to be sent on dangerous quests, for he was older and stronger. He was the one who would come home, the one who was like me so I knew almost his every thought. Faramir was and still is a mystery to me.
Then, that dreadful day came upon me before I was ready. Finduilas, one day, about a year before the birth of Boromir, convinced me to teach her swordplay.
"Those without swords may still die upon them," she told me, looking up at me with her eyes. Her deep and mysterious eyes, and I could not refuse her.
Boromir was playing on the outside the walls with his friends, other boys from the city between the ages of nine and fourteen. Out of my protection when the Orcs attacked.
They had swept through Osgiliath, and towards Minas Tirith. The foul creatures took them prisoner outside the walls.
The oldest boy, Beregond, fled and came to my house. In his panic, he shouted to Finduilas to help the boys, to help his friends.
Finduilas knew Boromir was among the boys. She would not see another one of her children die. So she took up her sword, and with a band of ten soldiers, burst from the great gates and slew every Orc within eyesight. Finduilas took wounds-- an Orc arrow to the shoulder and a slice from a sword in the side. She had the injuries bandaged and would not let Boromir out of her sight for days.
Then the fevers came. The madness, hallucinations. Her blood was poisoned with the taint of the Orcs, the taint of the Dark Lord. And there was nothing I could do to save her as she thrashed and cried and bled for weeks. I would call to her, but she would not answer. She would look at me, but not recognize. And then, one bright morning, much like the one where we were wed, she breathed no more.
The Orcs had taken Finduilas from me, just as my father said they would. And I was left with two sons, one of which was a male reincarnation of the beloved woman I had just lost.
Years passed and my boys grew into men. I sent Boromir on many quests-- diplomatic quests, quests wrought with danger. But Faramir I kept close to me. I was selfish, keeping him within my beck and call simply because I had the silly notion in my head that Finduilas lived on in him.
But the time comes when every child leaves, whether with their parents blessing or not. War was coming, and Faramir took his troops to the border of Mordor, while Boromir was sent to council.
For months I heard nothing from either of them. Then Faramir came home, bearing the body of his brother.
No one understood. Boromir was not supposed to die. He was powerful, he was always supposed to come home, because I had always come home. As I saw his body, punctured with many arrow holes, and the weapons of all the enemies he had slain, both pride and anger burned in my heart. The Dark Lord, again, had taken a loved one of mine.
And now Faramir lies dying, much like his mother did those long years ago.
No, I shall not allow Faramir to suffer, to burn from the inside. Nothing remains for me here, I will perish with him, in flame. Better to be burned by the hand of your kin on the outside than by the poison of Sauron the Deceiver from the inside.
Men scurred about, heeding my demands. My hands trembled as they laid Faramir, writhing and crying, onto the pyre I had created. I drew my sword and lifted it into the air.
The orcs would take no more sons from me. If anyone took my son's life, it would be me. And it shall be me.
The door to the Tombs burst open, and Gandalf stood before me, with the little Halfling beside him. Anger surged in my chest. Now he was trying to take my rights as father and steward away from me was well? What did he want with my son?
"He lies within! Burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. The west has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away in the wind," I cried, feeling the madness burn in my eyes. Here was the man that Faramir had always loved more than he loved I.
Gandalf leapt forward and rushed to Faramir, lifting him from his pyre. My eyes widened at the strength of the old man, and I stepped forward.
Faramir was still burning from within. He cried
out for me, cried out like he hadn't since he was a little child.
The anger quelched. Tears began to flow.
My son. I must help my son.
"Do not take my son from me! He calls for me," I cried out, reaching for the grown man in Gandalfs arms, even though I knew I could not hold him anymore. My son could not be taken from me, not now. They couldn't take his death from me, that would mean the Orcs were victorious. That my father was right. That love was foolish and that love was a weakness.
Gandalf refused, and I flashed into a rage. No! No! Faramir was my son! Only I had the right to call his death or call for his life!
I laughed at Gandalf's call for me to join them. Join them for what? Destruction? There is nothing left, no hope. All the East had come, and the West would fall. For I had seen it.
I drew the palantir from behind me, watching Gandalf's eyes widen in surprise. No hope. No hope. I have no ideas of the words that flow from my mouth in my anger. He can try to heal my son, but it will not help. He could not help Finduilas, and not a soul can save Faramir from the throes of his fever.
The palantir was a heavy weight in my hands. My house has fallen. No hope left. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow.
"Come hither," I demanded of my servants, shifting the palantir to my left hand. They hesitated, and I lashed out at them with my full rage. There was a reason the Steward of Gondor was feared. "Come, if you are not all recreant!"
Two of the younger men ran up the steps towards me. I leapt off the pyre and grabbed a torch from one of their sweaty hands.
There were many shouts and much noise; screams and the crackling of fire as I swiped the torch across the pyre. I let the palantir drop, and it bounced slightly on the stone table. I gripped my stewards staff in both my hands-- the staff that had cost me all, and cracked it on my knee.
At that single act, a great weight seemed to lift from my chest. I was no longer responsible for Gondor at all. I bent down and scooped up the palantir, then threw myself onto the hot flames.
I did not notice the searing pain of the fire, nor the screams of horror from my followers outside the door of the tomb. I cluched the palantir tightly to my chest, watching the reflection of the flames around me. Then, in the Palantir, I saw her.
Alethiel, the woman she should of become. She was tall, beautiful, bright, and full of laughter. Beside her was Finduilas, and standing behind them was Boromir, a half smile on his usually stoic face. Slowly I raised my gaze from the palantir to the flames in front of me, and saw them there too.
Tears of joy poured down my face and I began to laugh. Finduilas and Boromir! And Alethiel had grown in the land of the Valar, grown to be a woman in heaven. I had been told as a child that children were the most favored of all beings in Eru's eyes, and mercy would be shown to all of them. They would be allowed to grow, legends said, in the lands of Eru, as they should have in Middle-earth.
The fire burned brighter, and my gaze dimmed. I reached out, and Boromir took my forearm, lifting me from the flames. Alethiel threw herself on me, tightly hugging me in an embrace I'd never been given the chance to feel. Finduilas smiled at me, and the world spun away from me. The flames, the tomb, the palantir. But my beloved family remained.
Finduilas, Alethiel, and Boromir had all stepped back into the ever brightening light that I saw in the distance. All of them gazed expectantly at me.
"I love you," I whispered, and they all smiled.
And I was consumed in light.
A/N: Little strange, I know...but I always thought there was more to Denethor than met the eye. I think people make him out to be a horrible father far too much.
Good, I have banished that little plot-bunny Nuzgul now. (If you
don't catch that joke, go read Camilla Sandman's Official Fan Fiction University
of Middle-earth Story.)