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Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Two

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Ecthelion

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

Author's Note: "Thorongil" was the name used by Aragorn when, as a young man, well before the War of the Ring, he served Gondor incognito as the greatest Captain in the service of Ecthelion II, the father of Denethor.

"Father?" Denethor managed.

"Yes, Denethor." His father, Ecthelion, looking more hale and hearty than he had for many a day, smiled warmly at his son, and held out his arms for an embrace. Denethor moved forward hesitantly, apprehensive about being rejected, and hugged the other man gingerly. His father was being far more welcoming than Denethor could ever recall the older man having been in life.

"It gladdens my heart to see you," Ecthelion said. He drew back, looking into Denethor's face. "Long have I awaited you, my son."

Denethor glanced back at his own son in hopes of some explanation or support, but Boromir stood back, his expression showing nothing, as if to say this was between the other two men.

"I confess surprise, Father," Denethor said. "I had not ever thought you anxious for my company."

"Why say you that?" the older man asked, in seeming surprise. "You are my son. Why should I not wish to see you, and after so long a separation?"

"You always seemed to prefer the company of others to that of mine, Father." Denethor hated to show such emotion, deeming it a weakness, but these thoughts and feelings had long festered within him. "Never did you seem to see me, or wish for my presence."

"Not so," the older man protested.

"It is so!" Denethor burst out. "I was your only son, but you favored every man over me. Especially—" He stopped, hating the way he sounded, hating the way this conversation was going.

His father smiled sadly, as if he understood. "Especially Thorongil?" he asked softly. "Yes, my son. I knew of your jealousy of this man." He held up a hand as Denethor started to speak. "I do not say you had no reason to be envious. He was a good man, stalwart and puissant—"

"Even now, you prefer him over me," Denethor said bitterly.

"Nay, son, nay," his father protested. "That is not what I meant!" He sighed and shook his head at Denethor's sullen expression. "Oft do I wish I had the tongue of a bard, that I might better express my meaning. Thorongil was a fine man, and of course I favored him in placement. He was a worthy soldier and captain to Gondor. At a time when Sauron, orcs, and rebels all besieged our borders, there was none braver, or more skilled. But when he was a man, you were still a boy, my son. One does not expect a boy to be as resolute and brave as a Captain of Men. Necessity required that I spend much time with my Captains, and I favored those who did great service."

"I would have done you great service, Father," Denethor choked out, feeling ludicrously close to tears. "I will hear no more." He started to turn away, but suddenly Boromir was there, a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"I know this is difficult, Father," the young man said, not unkindly, but firmly. "But for both your sakes, please listen."

Ecthelion was beside him again, touching his arm tentatively, as if now he were afraid of rejection. "Forgive my clumsy words, my son," he said haltingly. "Ever was I rude and harsh in expressing myself. Words were best left to poets and to women, or so I thought when in Middle Earth I lived. I mean to say only, that if I did seem to favor Thorongil over you, it was because one does not expect a boy to be a man—"

"And yet, because I was still a boy, I needed your love all the more," Denethor said, anger and bitterness that he had thought long locked away spilling out. "I care not for your excuses! I will listen no longer!"

"Denethor!" Ecthelion cried, but Denethor was running, far away from his father and the latter's voice. He ran for what seemed like a long time, heading for the river, his father's desperate cries repeated over and over again behind him. Finally, when Denethor could no longer hear the older man's voice, he stopped.

"Are you ready, Father?" a familiar, beloved voice said quietly.

Denethor turned quickly. "Boromir!" His elder son was standing nearby, as if he had been there all the time. "How—?" His son just stood there patiently. The former Steward of Gondor tried again. "How close are we to yonder river?"

"Not very close, Father; and less close now than previously," Boromir said.

"What do you mean? I have been running towards it!"

Boromir shook his head. "You shall never finish the quest that way, Father. By your actions, you have but lengthened your journey. Distance here is traversed not by a man's stride, but by his heart."

"I do not understand," Denethor said, openly bewildered.

"I know," Boromir said. His gaze was thoughtful and rather sad, but not condemning. Denethor was suddenly reminded of Faramir, although he could not think why. Before he could pursue the thought, his elder son was grasping his arm and asking; "Are you ready to try again?"

Denethor nodded, and they moved off together.