Closed Doors

A cerulean sky spread above the Kingdom of Gondor, encompassing the landscape beneath a vast dome of purest blue. The sun shone amidst the scattered remnants of white snow clouds as a spry breeze darted through the clouds, leaving wispy white tendrils etched into the sky. The luminous gleam of the sun gushed its warmth down the endless array of hills and valleys that lay below, embellishing the green land with supple rays. The light cascaded down misty mountainsides and ran through mighty rivers, causing their sheen sapphire surfaces to sparkle like gems.

Sunlight fell into even the darkest of forests, as a crisp winter wind flitted brusquely through the treetops. On the outskirts of the southernmost forests, the Bay of Belfalas appeared as a dazzling jewel amidst the greenery surrounding it. Its glossy surface was frozen in places, and its shores were adorned with a thick coating of snow. Smaller rivers streamed away from the Bay, flowing through the White Mountains and intersecting with the Anduin. The rivers crisscrossed through the Harad Road and meandered precariously close to the Mountains of Shadow wherein the Black Gate lay. There, they winded further still near the South Road, flowing alongside a city that lay at the foot of Mount Mindolluin.

The City of Kings was a grand spectacle, contrasting sharply with the darkness of the mountains surrounding it. It rose gallantly from the snow laden earth, and was nearly impossible to distinguish from the land itself. The buildings seemed to be an extension of the snow rather than a separate entity. Blindingly white marble pillars extended gracefully from the ground, elongating their sturdy limbs toward the bright sky as if they wished to kiss the sky's beaming light. In the center of the City stood the Citadel. From the distance it looked like a large balcony, crowning the peak of Minas Tirith. The stark whiteness of its marble glowed, flecks of silver sporadically flashing as the sun struck.

To an outsider, The City of Kings was without a doubt a magnificent sight, immaculately beautiful and strikingly flawless. And yet on this particular day, the inhabitants of the City knew that their home was far from perfect. Minas Tirith was beginning to crumble from within, and the unblemished walls of the palace were a façade.

Inside the Citadel, the long and winding hallways were fraught with cold drafts and whispers of sorrowful happenings. The corridors were lit by dimly flickering candles, their feeble lights flailed by gusts of wind that crept through the crevices in the walls. The atmosphere was taut and shadowy, for the inhabitants strode silently about the castle like ghosts, and not one dared speak louder than in hushed murmurs. An aura of gloom surrounded the place in a veil-like haze, and although it was not yet night, a premature darkness seemed to slip inside the palace walls. For within the recesses of the outwardly pristine palace, a woman lay on her deathbed.

Her name was Finduilas, daughter of Prince Adrahil, wife of Denethor Steward of Gondor, and mother of Boromir and Faramir.

And yet for all her titles, tonight she was alone. The woman's husband had not the strength to see his wife in such great distress, and she had not the strength to allow her sons to see her in such agony. Her sons were in the study hall, studiously working as they always did after dinner, and her husband sat alone in his room. As the Steward of Gondor often resorted to doing when confronted with great emotional strife, Denethor had retreated into the solitude of his quarters. He had assumed a stony silence, and appeared more statue-like than human. He refused to eat or drink, and merely stared out his window at the white streets of Minas Tirith. Though it was not weakness which kept Denethor confined to his room while his wife was dying. It was fear.

Fear of the reasons Finduilas was dying. Endless, all consuming fear, mingling with shame and guilt. He was falling in and out of memories and tides of emotions that pulled him down further into his misery with each wave. A relentless series of memories kept replaying in his mind's eye, forcing him to relive his darkest moments…

Minas Tirith burned. The pale whiteness of the castle contrasted strangely with the flames. The walls of the city bled smoke, emitting languid spirals that climbed listlessly toward the gray sky. The heavy smoke surrounded the city in a charcoal mist that slithered through the streets and seeped into castle. The city was empty as a grave, a vacant shell of its former self. The streets were devoid of any inhabitants and the Citadel was abandoned by its soldiers. In the center of the city, the White Tree was drowned in fire. Ashes dusted the courtyard and the tree's branches curved downwards, as if bowing to their fate. A great Shadow had fallen over the whole of Gondor, veiling the Kingdom in darkness. Not a trace of starlight filtered through the dark, and the moon seemed to have vanished entirely from the sky…

"Why do you continue to use that wretched thing?"

Denethor was taken unaware by the sudden voice, and was forcibly withdrawn from the vision. In one fluid motion, he swept a heavy cloth over the palantir. Breathing heavily, he spun around sharply and eyed his wife with deep seated anger. If Finduilas was aware of her husband's rage, she did not let it show.

"I have seen its horrid affect on your mood, Denethor," she brazenly continued. "After using it, you retreat into your mind and refuse to speak to anyone, even myself. Your Kingdom is waning around you as you become pale with fear of things that shall not pass." Finduilas moved toward her husband and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I do not need your counsel," Denethor sneered, wrenching himself from her hold. "Do you question my strength? Are you suggesting I am too weak to use seeing-stone?"

Finduilas looked stricken, and paused for a moment before speaking."No, My Lord. I simply fear for your well-being."

Denethor appraised his wife with disdain. She was as tall as him, long and lean, with a regal neck and high cheekbones. Her skin was unusually pale, but it complemented her fiery red hair. Her hazel eyes shone sternly at him.

"Do not fear for me, Lady Finduilas," he said distastefully.

"Must you address me so formally? I am not a mere acquaintance, Denethor. I am your wife. There was a time when we were content with each other. Do you not recall?"

"Many years have passed since then, Lady." Denethor spoke harshly. "And even then there was nothing save for sheer affection between us."

Finduilas flinched. She backed away from him, tears rising in her eyes, and fled the room…

During the following months, Denethor had sated his endless desire to use the palantir, disregarding his Kingdom and his wife. She was a shadow that glided through the palace, unseen and silent. If he had been paying closer attention to her, he would have noticed how her eyes were rimmed with red each morning. He would have noted the inertia and gloom that had swept down on her, confining her to her chambers and keeping her from attending meals or visiting the courtyard as she used to do daily. He would have noticed that she spoke with none in the city save for Boromir and Faramir, and that even her interactions with her sons were stiff and mechanical.

And yet the Steward was not entirely unaware of her condition.

One late evening, when the sun had barely slipped past the horizon and Minas Tirith was cloaked in dispersed orange light like a pale mist, the city's most prominent physician paid a visit to Lord Denethor. He had noticed Lady Finduilas' declining spirits, and feared that they may begin to affect her physical and mental well-being. As the physician made his way to the Citadel, Lord Denethor could be found in his chambers. As was often the case come sundown, he was wallowing in the stress and malcontent born from using the palantir. Images of fire and crushed marble, bowing trees and red suns filled his thoughts. When a sharp rap sounded at his door, Denethor was taken unaware.

"Who is it?" His voice was callous and livid. Outside the door, the physician was taken aback by the Steward's evident anger. He did not reply for a moment, but then gathered his wits and opened the door.

"It is I," he said warily. "I bring you news of a matter which I think concerns you greatly."

"Strolling into my private quarters unannounced is not condoned," said Denethor icily, without looking at the physician. "I pray for your sake that the news which you bear is of importance. Speak your piece quickly, or else be gone."

The physician spoke in haste. "My Lord, I come bearing concerns regarding Lady Finduilas." If the physician noticed the way Denethor seemed to freeze at the mention of his wife, he gave no sign that he had. "Day by day, I see her disposition worsen. She has grown notably thinner over the course of but a few months, and she seldom interacts with anyone save for her sons. I have noted a lack of interest in—"

"Silence!" Denethor spat. He felt as if the physician's words had reached within him and torn out something vital. Tears of shame and fear rose and threatened to spill over. Denethor covered them with a mask of anger.

"Are you suggesting I am remiss in taking sufficient care of my own wife? Need I remind you that I am Steward of this Kingdom. You come to me with petty and insubstantial grievances when I have a Kingdom to maintain and greater threats to contend with. If ever I hear you speak of such things again, I will banish you."

The physician slowly backed out of the room, but lingered in the doorway for a moment. "My Lord, will you at least give me leave to attend to Lady Finduilas if she does in fact succumb to physical illness?"

Denethor looked away so the physician could not see his face. This offer was a lifeline, a faint thread of hope with the ability to fill at least some of the void that was his neglect for his wife. It was a way of making Denethor feel as if he was doing something for her, and perhaps it would abate his guilt slightly.

Denethor nodded imperceptibly, and then dismissed the physician. And then, acting on sheer impulse, he stood up and half ran to Finduilas' bedroom.

He opened the door, and saw that it was dark as night within the room. The curtains were drawn tightly, and no sunlight filtered through the windows. A candle lay on her bedside, but its wick was in pristine condition and looked untouched by light. Denethor left the door slightly ajar so some light from the flickering candles in the corridor would slip into the room. The flames reflected on the walls and soaked the room in a pastel burgundy light.

Striding across the room, Denethor saw his wife lying asleep on the bed. Her skin was pale, and her auburn hair lay strewn over the white sheets. He approached her slowly, and placed a hand on her forehead. It was cold and hard, like marble.

Suddenly, Finduilas opened her eyes. "I am dreaming," she murmured dazedly.

For a long moment, Denethor knew not what to say. "How do you fare, My Lady?" he asked finally.

She answered him as she would not normally have. "I fare badly, My Lord. Day by day I grow weaker." She spoke detachedly and without looking at him. Finduilas seemed to be utterly unaware of her surroundings, as if in a trance. "I long for my homeland. I wish to return to the sea."

"I have assigned a well known physician to tend to you if your health were to falter." Denethor placed a hand over his wife's. He half expected her to retaliate, but she did not move away from him. She lay limp and still, devoid of all willpower.

"A physician has the mere ability to cure bodily wounds. If a man goes to war and suffers an abrasion, it can be bound and healed with time and medicine. Yet what afflicts me festers like a poison within my body." Finduilas' voice sunk to a whisper, and her eyes seemed to glaze over. "I can feel it in my chest, growing stronger with each passing hour. It presses close to my heart. A coldness flows through my veins, as inexorably as death."

Denethor removed his hand from hers. He was unnerved. Her words reminded him of how he felt when he looked in the murky depths of the palantir. He felt not pity or fear for his wife, but rather a resonance so powerful and horrid it consumed his every thought.

Finduilas was oblivious to his pain, so absorbed in her own sadness. She spoke softly. "And it is not simply within me that darkness rises. A Shadow is growing across these lands, and nobody will be able to prevent it from reaching Gondor. Gloom will come to Minas Tirith."

Utter shock appeared on Denethor's features. He flinched away from his wife's words. Fear pulsed through him, and he acted irrationally.

"Blistered be thy tongue for uttering such vile words," he spat. "Thou art no wife of mine." Denethor stood, and strode deliberately out of the room. He closed the door behind him, leaving her immersed in darkness once more…

Denethor resurfaced from the memories. Tremors rocked his body. He had not cried in what felt like an eternity. Over the years he had carefully forged for himself a hard exterior devoid of emotions, which he saw as weakness. But now, it seemed as if all the grief and shame of a lifetime were pressing down heavily on him, shattering his impassive demeanor. Denethor looked away from his window, and walked over to his bed. On his bed lay a mantle he had given Finduilas as an engagement gift.

He fingered its deep blue fabric between his fingers, marveling at how different life had been when he had presented it to Finduilas. The cloak was beautiful, and embroidered with a lining of silver stars. He had taken it from her wardrobe when she had fallen ill. He still wasn't sure why he had done it. Perhaps it was because he wanted a part of her to hold onto that could not change or confront him with harsh truth. The mantle represented how he wished to see his wife…delicate and pure, with no hint of suffering or defiance to mar her beauty.

Several rooms down the corridor from where Denethor's quarters, Finduilas lay on her bed, finally succumbing to the grief that had plagued her for so long. It had begun as a small and tender wound, then had festered and grown into something lethal and poignant. Her husband's ignorance and lack of interest in her had fueled it. The evil she felt spreading from Mordor combined with her husbands' ceaseless talk of doom had made her fragile. And now, somehow she knew without a doubt that she was dying.

As she lay alone in her room, Finduilas found her thoughts wandering back to her homeland by the sea, during a time in her life when beauty was found in simplicity and she was a care free and lighthearted spirit, happily naïve and youthful. She remembered her mother, and her two sisters. They had lived in a small cottage overlooking the sea. At night when the world was tranquil and silent, Finduilas could hear the sea gently lapping against the shore from her bedroom. In childhood, her sisters and her would play together on the shore. As they neared adulthood, Finduilas and her sisters had begun receiving rapt attention from suitors. In their small village, they were a family long marked with great beauty, and Finduilas was no exception.

Her mother used to tell her that her hair was like a waterfall, tumbling down her back in waves. As she grew older, many men began courting her. And then one day, the Steward of Gondor had passed through their small village. Before she knew it, he too was courting her, and a month later they were married. She never had any say in the matter, though she found that she grew to love him as the years past. She was still unsure to this day if it had been a mutual love. Denethor had lavished her with beautiful gowns and jewelry and all manner of expensive gifts, and spoke kindly enough to her in public. Yet after being married to him for twelve long years, she was still uncertain if she truly knew him at all.

"Mama?" asked a small voice outside her bedroom door.

"Faramir," she said weakly. "You are supposed to be with your brother. Why have you come?"

"I wanted to see you," he told her. "I don't care what father says." Finduilas smiled slightly. This was what she had always envied about children. Even if their thoughts were not in line with what others would want to hear, they were honest and always spoke their minds.

"Come here, child," she murmured. Faramir gingerly crossed the doorway, and stood beside his mother. He held her hand lightly.

"Your skin is warm," he told her.

"Yes, I have a fever, love. But do not worry. It shall pass." Though she knew it was selfish, she could not bear to tell him the truth. If she did, he might leave her side.

"Father is in his room again," Faramir said. "Lord Stefan offered him food and drink, but he will none of it."

Finduilas closed her eyes. Her son was intuitive. He knew something was astray. She couldn't hide it from him any longer.

"Faramir, your brother must be waiting for you in the study hall. You should join him," she said, her voice soft but firm. Faramir's face fell, but he obliged her wish and left the room, leaving the door slightly open.

As he walked down the hall, he saw the palace's physician sauntering toward his mother's room. A sudden wave of understanding swept over Faramir, and he felt something wet crawl into his eyes. He had never fully understood the concept of death. He knew that oftentimes when soldiers left to defend the Kingdom, they would not return. He would see wives and mothers and sisters and brothers and friends weeping for their absence, but he could never quite grasp why they did not return. Now, after having seen his mother, Faramir understood.

Denethor started. Footsteps echoed dimly in the hallway, reverberating distortedly against the hard marble walls. He assumed an air of impassiveness, and rearranged his face so it was a clean slate, devoid of emotions. Closely followed by the footsteps was a knock on his door.

"Lord Denethor." The physician sounded grim and nervous. He wrung his hands and fidgeted with his shirt's collar.

"What news do you bring? The hour is late."

The physician spoke formally. "Your wife, My Lord. She is dead."

Denethor assumed an appropriately mournful face. "Send word to the funeral house. I will begin making arrangements come tomorrow morning , and the burial shall be held tomorrow night."

The physician nodded, but lingered in the doorway. "Is there nothing more I can do for you, My Lord?"

"You may close the door on your way out, and then leave me be."

"As you wish." The door creaked shut, enclosing Denethor in solitude once more.

And in solitude he lingered for the following months, never allowing anyone to become close to him again. Eventually, his loneliness and grief converted to misdirected rage and bitterness. And as the years past, he showed no desire to change his ways, but rather became grateful for the anger that consumed him. It was easier than feeling shame and fear, and he brandished it like a fiery whip to keep others at arms' length.

In the years to come, Denethor began to resent his second son, who resembled his mother in so many painful ways. Merely being in Faramir's presence would cause memories to rise within him. Denethor did not wish to remember his wife's frailty or beauty or purity. He wished to bury his memories of her so they would not interfere with his governance of his Kingdom. His duty to Gondor was the only thing that kept him from sinking into despair. The daily tasks that came with ruling a kingdom served as sufficient distractions, keeping tides of sorrow at bay.

It was only at night, when the rest of the city was asleep and the stars were still and silent in the sky, that Denethor would succumb to his sadness and allow it to ebb and flow freely through him. Come morning, these tides would leave him smooth like a shore after high tide, and encase him in a seemingly faultless exterior. His emotions were like a dark room, overflowing with self hate and anguish so thick that he could not breathe when surrounded by them. They swelled within the walls and seeped out of the crevices and leaked through the window sills. During the day he closed the door on them and shut the windows tightly. But at night, the door would open on its own accord and all the endings and loss of hope in the world would amass on him at once.

Thus, the Steward of Gondor fell into decay and mirrored the fading grandeur of the White City. As the years past, Minas Tirith waned into a shadow of its former self. The Shadow Finduilas had feared spread from Mordor, encompassing Gondor beneath a veil of darkness. And Denethor remained in his room, allowing fear and grief to overtake him as the world around him fell.