This is the second half of the scene "Denethor's thought" in the Special Extended Edition of "The Return of the King". Faramir POV. I do not own the persons or the spoken words.

The truth you can not face

"Boromir would not have brought the ring."

For a moment I am shocked by myself. These words have haunted me since I've heard about the ring first from the Halflings. I was afraid of them, I tried to dispel them from my head, but they wouldn't leave. They stayed, in the very back of my brain, but they stayed, and whenever my mind wasn't busy for a second, they would come back, especially in my nightmares. I've never spoken them aloud, even refused to think them out – and here they are now, cried out in defence, hanging in the short, endless silence between us. They hurt. But they are true, and I know it. Don't you know it, too, father? And once they're spoken, I hurry to go on.

"If he would have stretched out his hand for this thing and taken it, he would have fallen!"

The very thought of that makes me feel sick. My breathing is heavy now. Be strong, Faramir, be strong now. You have consciously decided to speak. Now you have to bring it to an end.

I can see how your face, already marked with bitterness and hate, turns into a grimace of fury as your head snaps forward as if to bite me.

"You know nothing on this matter!"

As on every other matter. You don't say that. But you think it. It doesn't need to be said once more. You've told me too often that I was a loser to erase it from my mind ever again.

But that is not right, especially not now. I knew my brother, I knew him better than anyone else. Better then you knew him. I knew what his strengths were, like everybody did, but I do also knew about his weaknesses. I never judged him for how he was, nor do I do so now. How could I, after everything he did for me, after all the years of love and admiration? But still, I have to keep talking. You have to see that Boromir wasn't perfect. You have to see that he was not the half-god you wanted me to be. He was human, too, and that is not a negative. How can somebody be complete without weaknesses? I put all the bitterness in my heart into the next words.

"He would have kept it for his own."

It sounds… like a simple statement. Sure. Cold. Serious. Bitter. You tremble.

I keep telling myself that I am not doing Boromir any wrong. I am not tarnishing his memory or anything. I loved him deeply as the person he was, with all his failings, and he was the most important person in my life. But he wouldn't have wanted me to bear your inequity. He would have told me to tell the truth. He always defended me, trying to show you what I've done, what I have achieved, even though you never see that. I only speak the truth, without judging, even if it looks like an accusation, a debasement. I could never accuse Boromir. I'm such a fool when it comes to him – just like you.

The silence is horrible. It presses down on me like something very, very heavy. Strength, Faramir. Be strong. Like him.

"And when he returned … you would not have known your son."

Every single word stings like somebody stabbed me with a sword. Even imagining what the ring could have done to him… I can't seem to be strong. Everything is slipping away, the anger, the bitterness, leaving only deep mourn behind as my voice becomes thick with uncried tears. I struggle to keep them from your eyes. Crying is something I can do later. Not in front of you. I have sworn that to myself years ago.

You jump from your throne, down the stairs. I instantly flinch at the look of your face. It's gone far from rational. You stumble back, and I know before it happens that you will fall.

As you look up at me, there is something underneath the hate that makes me take a few steps forward. He hates you, Faramir, a voice inside my head snarls, there is no reason for you to help him! I pause. But I don't turn around. I don't hate you. I feel compassion for the old man who lies on the floor in front of me, marked by a long, bitter life and the pain of losing his beloved firstborn. Lying there, you don't look powerful at all. Suddenly, I see your face for the first time in years. Recognition washes trough me, and I can see a strange hint in your eyes.

"Father?"

I look down at you, waiting for you to either hug me or yell at me. While I'm watching, your expression changes into its total opposite. Hate turns into love, anger into joy. Your mask is gone like it never took control of you. Your face is reddish, a little dumb and tears flow down your cheeks like rivers. My eyes widen with happiness and I am about to… well, do something. Maybe falling to my knees, or hugging you, or whatever would feel appropriate. Father, my father! Let us forget, father. Let us be family. I will forgive you for everything. Let us just start again from the very beginning.

But then it happens.

"My son!"

Your voice is so different now, like it belonged to another person, trembling with something that is stronger than just joy. You rise to your feet and stare my direction – my direction, but not at me. It's like I'm not even there. You are clutching your sword, your mouth half-open to show a sappy smile. You stumble again, forward this time, and I clench my teeth together. That again, is it? Who's the sappy one now? How could I honestly think you meant me – that you'd be able to accept me as your son after all these years of hate?

There are so many emotions inside me at that point that I don't understand how they can possibly coexist. They do, though. And still, there is room for another one, violent and cruel. The feelings should balance each other out, but the sudden, ripping agony is completely undiluted. Maybe that is because it has many reasons. Seeing your face, filled with all the love I'll never own. Sensing the pain behind it we both share. Knowing who you're talking at, who you see behind me, and, the worst, wishing to be able to turn around and share your vision.

It comes so easily to you, often, clearly and convincingly, while I have to fear I'd lost Boromir's face completely by now if it weren't for the pictures and the statue in the hall. I struggle not to collapse. It is silent for a few moments, then your vision is over and the idiotic look drops from your face. The cold mask is back. I greet it, relieved. It's far easier to bear.

"Leave me!"

I nearly sigh. This was torture. I lower my head and buck away, walking out of the throne room as fast as I can without breaking the etiquette. Ridiculous. Once outside, I start running. I don't care that the armour is making my steps heavy and loud. I run all the way up to my chambers, shut the door, and finally allow myself to collapse on the bed, sobbing like a child – like a child who has been left by the brother and disowned by the father.

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PS: I got criticism for making Faramir cry because that seemed unmanly. I want to mention here that one important point of this story was to show that a soldier may have feelings. To me, it feels like something Faramir would do. He sure is strong, but smart enough to know when pride is senseless. He lost his beloved brother, he doesn't have a mother, and his father hates him. Why shouldn't he be allowed to cry? It is not a sign of weakness here, but more a sign of the strength to show weakness and I think it makes him look more ... yeah, human. More loveable.