Summary: POV from Denethor
Disclaimer: I do not own them or him
A/N: Once again these are merely my thoughts on what Denethor could have been thinking. Any reviews will be welcomed
The day he took the Stewardship was a happy day for Denethor son of Ecthelion. He had the most beautiful wife and two sons, one a scholar, wise already beyond his few short years, and one a warrior wanting to slay foes in the courtyard garden. This happiness was not to last though and Finduilas his wife was soon gone. This drove Denethor over the edge. He sunk into a world of loathing and self pity and withdrew even from his own children for awhile.
All that had seen the previous Steward knew this was not him. He had become dark and his missions were growing ever more fatal to go on. He sent his men out knowing that many would not return, but only caring for the end result. Denethor had grown mad with the need for power. The power he saw each day in his palantir that he alone could not seem to grasp as Sauruman did.
For thirty years Gondor feared their new ruler, his ways, his demeanor left nothing to be desired. Denethor himself watched his sons grow up before his very eyes without their mother. Boromir had handled his mother's death far better than his brother Faramir. He had been older and took the blow of her death and turned it into a vengeful need to kill all of the dark forces which threatened his land.
Faramir however was quiet and had withdrawn a little more each day since her death. He had always been the quiet one, and where before Denethor had praised him for his studious ways now he only loathed them, for they reminded him of the love of his life, the one he had lost.
He had sent his favorite son to Rivendell to the council in the House of Elrond. Denethor himself did not care for elves or their ways, he had sent Boromir for one thing only, to retrieve the one ring at any cost. Faramir had begged his father to send him instead but Denethor once again looked upon him and saw only weakness, only a heart to quick to fall victim to pity when it needed to be strong.
Now Denethor sat in the Hall of Kings with a horn of Gondor cloven in two. It was a constant reminder that he had sent his son to his death. No one understood him, no one saw his need to help Gondor and keep it the city that he had grown up in before the Dark Lord and his evil ways. They would pay for their treachery, their evils. He would see to this, and he would bring all of Arda down to the ground to protect the White City and avenge his son's death. Who though would come to his aid in this time of need?
Rohan had always been an ally in the past, but could Denethor share the glory of victory with Theoden, no he could not. His people would speak his name long after his death, and regale others with his victory over the Dark Lord's foes. When Denethor thought of the wee hobbit who had claimed allegiance to him he had to sneer. What good was this creature? What purpose could he serve except to be his personal servant at his beck and call?
Then there was his son Faramir standing before him now and asking of Denethor something he did not wish to answer. The words echoed in his ears reminding him again that his son Boromir would not be riding home from his quest. He spoke the cruel words, "Yes, I wish it had been so," and he watched as Faramir's eyes filled with tears. The look clutched at his heart, but his hurt would not let him comfort another while the pain was still fresh. Instead he sent Faramir back to Osgilith to reclaim the borders. He knew it was a impossible task, but he could not stand to think right now. His son was gone and his other had been standing before him, with the same look Finduilas had moments before she died. The same tears had welled in her eyes as she told him of her love, and Denethor had wept for her, begging her not to leave him.
He looked over and had forgotten the hobbit was still in the room. He requested a song and thought the small creature known for laughter and fun would sing him a song to lift his spirits, but it was not to be. Peregrin Took opened his mouth and a tragic melody ushered forth from it sending Denethor to his breaking point. Dismissing him he sat alone in the room. Alone the sound of a pin could be heard across the room, but that was not the sound that echoed off the walls. It was the sound of silent sobs, as they wracked his body thinking he had sent his only son off to die.
Denethor paced the halls waiting to hear word from anyone of Faramir's fate. The scenarios running through his mind only served to drive him even further into madness, and when the horn of the returning men came he dashed to the courtyard. What he saw was Faramir lying on the ground surrounded by his royal guard. His was as still as death, and Denethor fell to his knees. "My son is dead." he choked out. His heart ripped at that moment and it sent his mind spiraling on the one way path to madness not to return. The hobbit had screamed for him to stop, that his son Faramir was alive, but Denethor would not be fooled. He had heard these lies before. They had told him Finduilas was young and healthy and that she would make it through her illness, and yet she had fallen into the shadow of death, and their bitter lies had drove him into insanity.
As he looked over the wall he saw Sauron's forces waiting just outside it and thought death is but moments away. "I will not have these foul creatures torture me until I am dead. I shall take my son and we shall greet his mother together in death, and Denethor took his son and went into the tombs of the great kings to build a pyre.
Wood and oil had been requested, and were brought in as Denethor held Faramir's seemingly lifeless hand in his. His son did not move, did not speak to him. He would not get the chance to tell him how he truly felt, to explain his actions. Faramir had died knowing only his hatred for him, and his last thoughts would be that his father had sent him to his death willingly.
Denethor climbed atop the pyre and poured the oil upon himself, ready to light the fire to send himself and Faramir into death when the wizard Gandalf burst through the door with the hobbit. They wished him to stop, they wished to take Faramir from him, to take his only son from him even in his last hour. Denethor would not be robbed of this last grasp at honor, to die in the way he choose, and not to be captured by the minions of evil beating at his door. Gandalf had tossed the hobbit atop the pyre and he had rolled Faramir off. This had sent Denethor into a rage unlike any had ever seen.
He grabbed Peregrin Took wanting to make him understand that Faramir was dead, and that he wished to go with him to see his wife, his son. To show him just this once that he was by his side and that they would go together, hand in hand to greet death. Gandalf had other ideas as he wrenched Denethor's grasp free from the wee creature and flung him backwards onto the pyre. The spark was instantaneous and Denethor soon found his arm on fire. He looked about to find something to put it out, but his eyes caught a glimpse of his son. Faramir opened his eyes for a split second and stared into the dark orbs of his father. Denethor forgot the flames, forgot the other people in the tomb. He saw only that Faramir was alive, and that he, his father was about to send him needlessly to his death.
His whole life flashed before him then, and he saw how he had pushed Faramir aside, constantly berating him for every little misdeed and then he saw the tears that Faramir had shed over the years from his cruelty. Denethor did the only thing he knew, he ran to death with open arms off the top of the seventh layer of Gondor. He gave his son the gift of freedom. To be free from his hateful words and his ever judging ways. Before he hit the ground and death took him, Denethor son of Ecthelion wished his son Faramir a happy life. Death took him and ended his life but no one would soon forgot the mind of the madman.