What Did You Do in the War, Grandfather?
Afterwards, the evening comprised of the usual combination of good-tempered quarrels, bad puns, and outright absurdities. Léof pushed his luck over bedtime, but was eventually dislodged from his chair by his mother. On his way out, and unusually for such an undemonstrative child, he threw his arms around his father and said, "I love you, Papa." Morwen kissed him on the cheek and eyed him thoughtfully. He would be the object of intense nurturing from her for a while, he suspected. She would watch every bite of food that went into his mouth, nag him about working too hard, insist on early nights. He would accept it all with good grace.
Eventually, father and son were left alone. Faramir replenished their glasses, and waited.
"What was he like, Father?" said Bron, at last. "What was he really like?"
Faramir sat and contemplated this question for a while. There was no-one left alive now who had known Denethor as well as he. Yes, other men had known him, dealt with him – the King, for one, and his uncle, and many of the other lords – but none had known the private man. Only him.
Who else left alive had been at his side for nearly forty years? Who else remembered, faintly, the time when there had still been some joy in the world for him, and then watched the grim winter slowly settle, watch it all turn to flint and stone? Who else had known to such depths how to read his moods and temper, when to deploy humour, when to let him rage, when simply to withdraw? Who else had longed as much to lessen his burden, to persuade him to live if not in hope then beyond it, to see him smile freely one more time?
Who else had loved him?
"What was he like?" he said. "He was unhappy."
Altariel, 19th August 2018