Little Soldier Boy
Summary: Denethor, son of Ecthelion, knelt beside the aged tree in silence. In his hands were clasped the halves of a horn that had been borne for generations by the descendents of the line of Hùrin, but now it would be so no longer. His beloved son, his Boromir, would not return… An LotR oneshot inspired by Avatar: The Last Airbender.
Disclaimer: If I owned it, I would be rich by now. The characters and setting belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, the master of folklore whom we all revere. The scene of this particular oneshot, as well as the song featured at the end, were taken from the Nickelodeon TV show Avatar: The Last Airbender, from the episode entitled, "The Tales of Ba Sing Se", specifically "The Tale of Iroh" in which Iroh mourns the death of his son, Lu Ten.
Dedication: As the aforementioned episode of Avatar was dedicated, so shall this story be. I dedicate this oneshot to Makoto "Mako" Iwamatsu, the voice actor who played Iroh in Avatar: The Last Airbender until his death July 21, 2006. You shall be missed by many.
The wind whispered through the Fields of the Pelennor, mourning for the one who would not return. All else was silent, save for the mighty river Anduin as it rushed along its path, bumping and bubbling and churning with no respect for the grief of its brother the Wind. At a place a few miles north of Osgiliath, however, a tiny offshoot of the great river split from its parent and trickled in melancholy sorrow over smooth pebbles and worn stepping stones. The setting sun reflected off of the silvery water in brilliant hues of bloody scarlet. Beside the stream stood an aged tree, gnarled and bent from centuries of weather. One branch hung down over the water, just barely touching its surface, as though to comfort the sadness of the young stream.
Denethor, son of Ecthelion, knelt beside the tree in silence. In his hands were clasped the broken halves of a great horn, a horn that had been borne by his father's father, by his father, by himself, and by his son. Now it would be borne nevermore by the descendents of the line of Hùrin. His beloved son, his Boromir, was the one who would not return.
He remembered his son, frolicking in this stream by moonlight with his little brother Faramir. He remembered his wife scolding them for getting their new outfits soaked through. He remembered everything…and he regretted everything. How many times had he callously turned aside his wife or his sons so as to look the part of the strong man with Gondor's well-being foremost in his mind? How many times had he put his duty before his family? How many times had he needled Boromir to ride forth on his mission to Imladris, the mission that would end in his doom?
Tears coursed down Denethor's rugged, lined face. His limp grey hair hung around him in despair, echoing his total loss of interest in anything that had to do with upholding his physical standards of the past. His black mourning robe was stained and ancient, a frock from the back of his closet that he had not worn since his father had died all those many years ago. Now he wore it to honor the death of his son.
Slowly, deliberately, Denethor placed a large, flat stone by the root of the old tree, then a rounder stone on top of that. Over them both he draped a black cloth, upon which he placed some dried fruit and small pouch tied with a drawstring. In front of them he set the great horn of the Hùrin family. Finally he withdrew from a fold of his cloak a crumbled, worn parchment that bore the inked image of his dear son, his Boromir. A sob was wrenched from his lips as he looked upon his son's countenance, rendered so perfectly upon the paper as to suggest the semblance of life itself. In the corner of the image was written, in Boromir's hand, Steward Denethor, I will see you again when the Weapon is in Gondor's hands. Your loyal son, Boromir.
Denethor lit two candles and placed them at either end of the image, closing his eyes as he inhaled their lovely aroma. Even it could not soothe the turmoil within his heart, the grief that threatened to overthrow his very sanity. Who was Denethor, son of Ecthelion? Who was he, without the pride and joy that had been his son Boromir? What had he ever accomplished in his life that was worthwhile if it was not the honor of the Captain of the White Tower, his heir? How could life matter now that he had lost everything he had ever been?
"Happy birthday, my son," he whispered, placing the image beside the offerings on the cloth. "If only I could have brought you safely back to me…" Bent double in his grief, Denethor wept, uttering the words of an ancient song that he remembered from the funeral of one of his cousins, long, long ago…
"Leaves from the vineFalling so slow
Like fragile tiny shells
Drifting in the foam
Little soldier boy, come marching home
Brave soldier boy, comes marching home…"