A/N: This story was inspired by Jackson's movies, and as a result follows that script. This will not be happening often, but the idea popped into my head while I was at work, and would not leave me alone. So I have temporarily strayed from Tolkien's world into a slightly less majestic universe. Hopefully this remains true to Tolkien's characters, however.
"Oh yes," Denethor hissed, "Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I tell you, I will not bow to this ranger from the North, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship!" He once bowed to me, Denethor thought bitterly. Only at that time, it had been 'Thorongil', who bent his knee to Denethor, not 'Aragorn.' Call it the accursed pride that he had inherited from his father, but Denethor was unable to even consider paying obeisance to a man who had once obeyed his own commands.
Gandalf's face hardened and he whipped around and stormed from Denethor's presence. Denethor sank back down into his chair. He was glad that the bothersome wizard was gone, but at the same time, he wished that Gandalf were still with him, scolding him as if he were but a child. At least then, he would not be left alone with his thoughts.
But he was alone, and his thought came charging at him in a rush. Boromir. Thor—no, Aragorn. Faramir. The war. He remembered the first time he had seen Thorongil as Aragorn, rightful King of Gondor…
Denethor had gone into his chambers to check on his sons. They were unaware of his custom, but daily, after luncheon, he would look into the Palantír to see what Boromir and Faramir were doing, and to make sure that they were not in any danger. Nestadren was the only other person who knew of Denethor's practice. He had warned him against it: constant use of the Palantír would certainly cause him to lose his mind. And Denethor feared that the old man might have been right: he was not ignorant of the rumors proclaiming the Steward's loss of sanity. But Denethor cared not if his subjects thought him a crazy old man. His sons were his greatest treasure, and he would sacrifice anything to ensure their safety.
And so it was, on that fateful day, that Denethor turned to the solitude of his chambers. Everyone knew that he would not emerge for an hour—at the very least.
Denethor shut the door behind him solidly. He would check on Boromir first. After all, Denethor already knew what Faramir was doing: his youngest son had just returned from Osgiliath to check on several of his rangers, who had been wounded a few weeks ago in an ambush. And Faramir, the good son that he was, had stopped to have luncheon with his father. Just now, he was probably walking to the Houses of Healing, where his men waited for him.
Faramir was a good captain, Denethor thought proudly. He knew that Faramir was well loved by his rangers, and sometimes wondered if, perhaps, Faramir wasn't a better captain that Boromir was. Not that he would tell Faramir that. If he could manage to keep Faramir always wanting just a bit more from him, Faramir would never leave him.
Denethor gently lifted the embroidered cloth—one that Finduilas had made shortly after their marriage—off the Palantír smooth, cloudy surface and turned his thoughts to Boromir, his beloved son who had left so long ago to seek the answer to a dream.
As the mists of the Seeing Stone swirled, Denethor grasped his hands and mind firmly about the Palantír. "Boromir," he breathed softly before fixing his gaze upon the Palantír. Before his eyes, his son appeared. He was seated in a stone chair, forming a circle with the other men, elves seated there… and dwarves? Denethor thought in surprise. Time of trial he supposed, would create allies from even the most hateful of enemies, like the elves and dwarves.
Boromir stood and began to pace about, apparently trying to convince his companions of something, when his attention was drawn to a dark-haired man. Denethor almost fell back in shock. Thorongil? Thorongil was alive and with his son? Denethor's heart jumped wildly. The one person who had ever possessed Denethor's heart so completely, with the exception of Finduilas, was alive! But then Denethor blinked, and a red haze of anger slipped over his eyes. Thorongil had betrayed him and left him in one of his greatest trials. Thorongil deserved to be executed as a traitor of Gondor!
Denethor shook his head, reminding himself to pay attention to what was happening at this council. He looked back at Boromir, just as an elf jumped up angrily behind him. Denethor watched the elf's lips carefully—years of practice as steward had taught him fairly well the art of leading other's lips. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
Denethor's eyes widened in a mixture of shock and horror. Aragorn? Allegiance? That could only mean one thing: king! His former friend had not even had the decency to tell him who he really was!
He looked to Boromir to see his reaction to the news. Boromir's face had grown terribly red, an as he spoke, his body fairly trembled with fury. "Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king!" Denethor's chest swelled with pride at his son's bold response, and he looked quickly at Thor—no, Aragorn. But the man did not seem perturbed by Boromir's denial. Boromir sat stiffly back into his seat, making no other visible response to 'Aragorn'.
Denethor stepped back from the Palantír, allowing the comforting warm air to wash over his face. So the king had appeared, and was ready to take his throne, eh? Well he could try. But the rule of Gondor belonged to the Stewards. They had guarded it in the long absence of the Kings. They had sacrificed their homes, their families, their fortunes for Gondor. When they had been called upon to defend Gondor, it had been the Stewards who had willingly sacrificed their lives, while the errant Kings had been running about Middle Earth doing only Eru knew what! The more Denethor thought about it, the angrier he grew. No! He most certainly would not yield rule of Gondor to a man who was inexperienced at ruling and who had disappeared from the face of the earth the moment he had been most desperately needed.
The rule of Gondor was for Denethor, and no other!