Thanks for the many wonderful reviews. I've been trying to avoid the evil Denethor, and I think I still have. All books, all the time- he is supposed to be almost exactly like Aragorn, and in order to get that Numenorean thing down I found myself reading a lot of tales from Numenor for this. I didn't think that he would ever be mislead by the palantir, for they always show the truth, but what people see is changed by their frame of mind, and Saruman had just finished talking to him, the rest is just really bad circumstance. This is, of course, going to get even worse for him. I also used a couple medieval accounts on what stewards actually did, which helped not for his character, but for Finduilas, which had some fitting irony in it. I'm also working on a 'new' Faramir, slightly different but still canonical (yes, he's Denethor's)
Chapter 21 A Great and Terrible Silence
Denethor brought Finduilas back, and now they both knew she would ever remain. That alone was a burden on his mind and heart, for if he had required her to return he now felt himself all the more answerable for her. Yet he could not bring himself to face up to that responsibility. He walked her to her own quarters, and he brought her to her maid, and when she was safely housed he went to his own room and slept. The next day he did not attend council nor sit with his father in the great hall. He sat in his room and brooded, and indulged a thousand ill-tempered thoughts. Then he repented of those thoughts, and attacked his account books to drown out the quarrels in his mind and heart in a sea of ink and calculations. He hid in his work, which being real enough, was easily achieved. Her eagerness to make amends was rebuffed by his absence, but she did not know why this should be, and she was grieved and puzzled.
Finduilas at first made no demands upon him, resolving now to keep her peace. She did her hair for him and dressed for him each night, and each night slept alone. He went to council but not to dinner, claiming always to have work to do, and as the days passed he drew ever more haggard and worn. He was using the palantir again, for news this time, and he grew ever more skilled at controlling it. Yet his vision was frequently cast aside, and he knew at times that other wills than his could control such objects, and he sought a balance between the elvish orb and the reports of his men. Such nocturnal struggles, coupled with the day, indeed wearied him, and so he found good cause to avoid his wife altogether.
A fortnight after their return a vision had formed unbidden in the palantir, which was, as far as Denethor was concerned, the chief danger of using it. If your thoughts strayed at all the orb followed them to whatever dark corners they had wandered. He had been looking at Ithilien, and wondering what fate should befall it when the hosts of Morder had gathered. Then he had seen a captain. A strong young captain, wearing the royal emblem; for a moment he almost thought he saw a vision of his own youth. But this young man jested with his comrades, and laughed in a way that Denethor had never managed in his entire life. Then the expression on the young man's face shifted into the same look that Finduilas wore at times, and Denethor had understood.
Finduilas had endured the silence and waiting as long as she could. Eventually though, she knew herself to be with child, and then she allowed herself to feel hope again, that she could bear his physical proof of her devotion, and bring him more happiness the way that Boromir did. She came to him that first month late in the evening when he was undressed for bed, and Denethor rose and quickly replaced his tunic. Finduilas wondered at what this would portend. She stood in the door, trembling and radiant, and after a moment she slowly walked across the cold stone floor until she stood before him. Then she placed a hand on his chest, as she had done on their wedding night, and lifted her face to his.
"It is long since I have seen you," she ventured.
Denethor lifted a tender hand to her cheek, and drew his fingers lightly across her lips. She returned the gesture with a kiss, but it drew from him no desire, only sadness. He looked away lest she read the look on his face, and he held her hands in his.
"I am often busy now my beloved," he replied.
His heart, as Finduilas had foreseen and long feared, was beginning to fall under the shadow, yet he looked so pitiably weary that she felt she could ask no more of him. She ran a hand through his now grey hair, and passed her fingers across the new lines in his face, and felt how very tired he was. Her caress seemed to ease him however, for his lips turned in a half smile, and he looked upon her with love and sorrow. Then she remembered the cause for her temerity.
"I am with child," she whispered.
His eyes, dark and reflecting the orange flashes of the fire, did not change, nor did his features, and for a moment she thought he might not have heard her. Then he whispered huskily, "A son."
That made her smile in earnest, strange though his bearing might be. "Are you sure or eager?" She jested, thinking to regain his old humor.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then his eyes gazed on hers, rimmed with sleepless dark circles, reddened with long and tedious hours. "I have seen him," Denethor replied.
Then her face trembled and changed, the forced humor at last succumbing to the chill of the night and his manner. It was the same look the young man in his vision had worn; one who wants so much, but is afraid to ask for the smallest thing. He saw she wanted to know how he had come by his vision, that she wanted to ask him what he had seen, and yet she feared to do so. He did not know that this fear was not for her child's sake but his. But he felt fiercely protective of her now, standing before him in her shift with a single jeweled ribbon in her curls, looking like a child who has awoken from bad dreams.
He ran his hands over her shivering shoulders resolving to quiet her mind, "Do not trouble yourself Finduilas, you must be careful now in your condition." He murmured, "Come, I will cheer you. I have thought of a name."
And he knew not why he said that, for last night a name had come to him, and it brought no joy. It was born of the black hours of the night, and he had squelched the thought as a perversity. Yet now he found himself speaking to his wife in the same double-edged way he dealt with men. But he did not mean to treat her thus, and he felt when he spoke that his lips did not obey his will.
"What is to be his name then?" Finduilas whispered to his chest.
"Faramir. For I was searching for you." He drew back to look at her, but the light in his eyes not desire. It was the look she remembered before he rode to battle and it brought her no joy.
Her brow furrowed, "Faramir, it matches his brother's, but is it not an ill-fated name?"
"Fates change, they are but one path, and a man is free to make his own."
And then she smiled somewhat bitterly, which is something he had never seen her do, but the look vanished, for he kissed her to still her questions, and he was able to lead her back to her quarters. Denethor knew his heart was still in her keeping, and always would be. Yet he had spoken in bitterness when she came to him in love, and the thought wounded him. Too proud to ask her forgiveness he held her for a long time until sleep claimed her. Then he rose and left her chamber. Eventually, grim and weary and unable to find rest, he walked the streets. Those on the night watch fell back without question, for all knew him and none dared to cross him. He walked where he wanted, and ended up outside the walls. Then he ran his hands over the centuries old stone, the stones that had never been breached, and he wondered what fell deeds he would view err the closing of his lifetime. There was little that could be added to the cities defenses, if the time ever came his role would be to direct the field. He looked for a long time, not out to Ithilien and the black land beyond, but up towards the citadel, there underneath fair banners and smooth walls a single window burned with light. His wife was up too, but he had not the strength to go to her.
In the early hours, before dawn woke the city, the people of the countryside walked to the gate for its opening, and bowed low to find their Lord there. He waved off their acknowledgement and folded his cloak about him, and soon went unnoticed by the growing crowd. There were women with faces lined with care and childbirth, children in bright clothes with fresh morning clean faces, men who whistled on their way to another day's labor. For the first time in his life he looked upon them without any scorn, for all their ignorance and foolish behavior, he was touched by the simple faith they kept with each other, and with him. The man who drove his simple mule cart to sell faggots, the women with their handiwork, the sellers of leathers and cured meats. Huntsmen gathered before the wrought mithril gates with fowls that cackled in the dawn, their wives with baskets of eggs. Denethor found his eyes drawn to a young girl of eight summers who smiled at him without front teeth. She stood with her arms filled with flowers and he saw her fingers were cut and scarred from picking and twisting the bunches. But she smiled in the cold dawn without care, and her unshod feet danced in the roadside dust to music coming from a shepherd boy's pipes as he drove an ancient flock to the kitchens. Why that girl should remind him so strongly of his wife he did not know, but his heart filled with love for those people who strayed outside the city walls, love and pity, for they lived on the protection of the Valar alone. And every year passed all the more precariously between the forces of the West and the gathering foes in the East. Yet they put ribbons in their hair, and played merry tunes while they waiting for the opening of the gates and the new day to come.
When Finduilas awoke in the morning she found the candles had burned away in the night, but beside her on the pillow was a bunch of sweet-smelling roses. She ran her finger over the delicate things, feeling their softness like a baby's skin. She wondered why he should bring her such a gift. She had received nothing of the kind since their courtship, but here was no object of interest from far away lands. Simple field flowers from the hills of Gondor, tied with country yarn, a common market purchase. She cherished the little bundle though, and placed it in a water pitcher by her window. But they faded the next night with her hopes, as she spent it alone, and Denethor did not dine with her or Ecthelion, nor did he visit Boromir.
The following weeks had brought other new activities from him. She awoke to find hothouse grown flowers, or oranges near to her bed. Miriel told her that her husband often came to the door when she slept, for she had several times seen him leaving in the dawn. He left her many little presents now.
"Tis the most backward courtship I've ever known a pair to make. If she ended back in her father's house t'would be no cause for wonder. Nor much lamentation for that matter." Miriel explained to Erendis, Boromir's nurse.
Sometimes Finduilas was filled with joy at the sight, for they seemed to speak of happiness returning, and showed that she was now more in his thoughts. At other times the sight of some gift filled her with sorrow and she would give it swiftly to Miriel, or discard it in secret in the rubbish. She wanted her husband, not gifts, however fair they might be. He faded into an air of formality and kindness, inquiries about her health, flowers in the morning, but he himself was gone. One request only he made of her, and that was that she go frequently to the healers, and she knew from them that he also asked many times about her health. The autumn and winter passed in such a manner, and they did not speak nor quarrel, each seemingly waiting for a sign from the other. It was in that time that Finduilas grew weary of waiting, or perhaps the thought of a new child filled her with new life, and she began again to seek to be active and change the world about her.
The winter passed into an early spring, the snow began to melt, and send little hopeful rivers of water down the mountains. The whole world paused and held its breath, for soon the frost would vanish and the rush of planting begin. It was always a hard time to be Steward, for when the lands went from frozen to muddy to blooming, men were needed to work on their farms; and yet it was also when the roads became once again passable, and the Dark Lord did not wait for men to finish their sowing. Women often now aided in these activities, yet they had their full compliment of work as well, gathering early fruits, caring for stock, and weaving. So it was a busy time for all, yet pleasant, for the promise of the New Year had come, and once again people were gladdened to see it.
Finduilas in particular rejoiced as she sat in her rooms. She was spinning, for it was a suitable and accepted occupation for noble women, and about her many women were likewise engaged. Because it was spring, several plants of high color were collected, and the yarn would be dyed, so about them were drying hanks of blue and yellow and green. Of course there were many, many dark swatches of cloth as well, for the Colors of Gondor were silver and sable. There were also the greens of the ranger's clothes, and these Finduilas particularly enjoyed the making of. They were not as gay and pretty as the other yarns, but they were made of all the browns and greens of the forest. And during the winter months it was enjoyable to create a forest of yarn about her. Most of all, she enjoyed working with the blue, for it was the color of her home, and she missed the sea about her.
The women around her chatted and laughed; they were mainly cottagers from places close to the city. They came once a week or month, and cheerfully counted this time to their duties owed for the land. All of those who worked the fields around Gondor did so for a lord, for land owned also meant the duty to protect it, and so close to the Shadow this was not possible except for those who could also afford to keep and equip men. There were also many new families, for with the loss of Minas Ithil many who had lived in Ithilien had been granted lands about the city. These women rejoiced to come to the tower, for they were able to meet their new neighbors and see old ones from before. They also made a healthy profit gathering herbs in the mountains for such dieing, and they were skillfully culled and applied. There were of course men at market who sold the same things, but they did not grudge the competition, for with more people coming into the city their trades flourished.
It had been Finduilas' idea to make these regular and traditional visits more of an occasion. Instead of having the women to the under stores she threw open the halls for them. For one day a week the statues of kings gazed sternly over broad country women who laughed in their mugs, even as their knitting needles flew. The servants brought simple cakes or ale, in the winter hot wine or cider, and the women were often merry. What had once been a chore required for the land lease became quite festive. It also became a way to spread news and gossip, and sing old songs, and try to promote a son or daughter into a service in the city. There were too many positions open, for the population was ever sadly waning, and the air hummed with hopes and promises. Among the farmer's wives came on occasion the wives of the tradesmen or merchants. These had no such duties, and they worked out of charity, and mainly to conspire with the ladies about them, to trade advice on fashions and household managements, and above all gossip. Of course there were also ladies' maids on their holiday, and sometimes a visiting lady. Some turned their nose up at such meetings, where they would be obliged to sup with those that served, but as time went on they could no longer resist the lively stories, and the meetings became a great success, the gaiety became infectious. All the ladies of Gondor imitated the Steward's wife, of course, but their admiration went beyond her position. Being so young and pretty she was ever the object of those about her, and so a new custom entered Gondor, and bound the people closer to their lords.
From these meetings came also now many more women to work with the healers, wives out of Ithilien or the mountains, who having lived for generations as their own such arts could contrive, and were skillful hands. It had started with the bringing of spices and dyes, and soon the women began to sell remedies as well, and before long the Healing Houses had many eager and skilled workers. This change surprised Ecthelion and even Denethor. The one because he thought it so charmingly clever, the other because it was clever and he had not thought of it. Denethor sent a note to his wife expressing pleasure, and giving account of several good men who were returned to hardihood thanks to the rejuvenated houses. Finduilas found herself in tears at the praise, and she slept with the note under her pillow.
Finduilas had such a cheerful and humble manner that many of the women who now met her were charmed. She was seen as an ideal lady by both the women who idly wove pretty holiday mittens and by the sturdy farm wives who could clothe a regiment in a matter of days. The rumors of her earlier zeal for travel, and aloofness from her own city, were dismissed now as the whims of girlhood. With the coming of a second child many now thought her to be settling down to sober wifehood. Once or twice a stir would go through the room, and Denethor himself would enter. He might pass a word or two with his wife, never about anything more serious than her health, and nod to the other noble ladies, and then take his leave. At those moments Finduilas was so tenderly attentive, and quiet in her bearing, that the women about her fairly buzzed with praise of her sweet graces. They admired her humility very much, provided they were not required to practice it. Of less awe but more merriment was the memorable visit from the Prince of Dol Amroth, who stayed long to jest with the ladies, and his easy manner reminded all of Adrahil, as well as the fact that he was still unwed, and that added as much merriment to his visit as the wine.
Imrahil was less pleased with his sister. It was all he could do not to gape at Denethor, who had aged forty years in two, but he alone seemed to note that the weight of years also now sat upon his sister's shoulders. He did all he could do to cheer her, but he was soon called away to Dol Amroth, for their lives were separate now, and a woman's fate was to be sundered from her father's kin. Besides he now had a fair face calling to him, and thoughts of starting a family of his own.
Denethor watched his wife again grow with child. Her features plumped and relaxed, her eyes grew peaceful and warm. He was glad she was happy, but he hated the sight of the child to come, the constant reminder he felt now of a wrongness committed, a failure of vigilance on his part, and spirit on hers. He knew too that a woman's health was delicate at such times, and he did not trust himself to be around her lest he say something amiss. When she began to gather the other women about her he thought it a calming influence and a good change, and he was even at times able to come and speak with her. He kept these meeting formal, and his heart clenched as tightly as a fist when he did so, but none save his wife could have noticed such things beneath his exterior, ever smooth and calm.
As it was he barely came out of his study or council chambers. Ever since he had used the palantir he had begun to overwork his military. Ithilien could no longer be defended in full, new walls must be built, and new recruits found. He pulled back from the borders and focused on defenses. At the same time he began to prepare for long war and siege. The stores within the walls were no longer enough. He had more now to ask of his people, from the labor of the smallest milkmaid to the old man that must pay more in taxes. He fell back to his work with a passion, relieved that this brought no protest from his wife, and glad that she had found a way to busy herself within the city walls. So he surrounded himself again with maps and numbers and ink covered scrolls. Had the need for vision not been so critical he might have ridden to battle himself, but it had been long since he had done so. The candles smoked and sputtered for many nights as he planned his defenses.
Husband and wife now were kept busy, and they left little time for personal reflection. What had been a habit for Denethor became a way of life, now that Finduilas no longer protested. She in turn was drawn into his tendencies. She had promised to follow him into shadow or light, and she saw it as her duty now to live in this manner. So it was between them that Gondor was prepared for the great War of the Ring. It was the sort of life Denethor had always imagined, and that Finduilas had admired. Had it come about differently they might have rejoiced in the fulfillment of their promise, for their actions now worked in great effect, and in full harmony. Yet they were not in harmony, merely waiting, in suspense rather than peace, and the stillness grew with every silent breakfast, every suppressed smile or sigh. Eventually this silence became usual enough for neither to lament it, but their hearts were chilled.
In the spring Finduilas entered her labor, and try as Denethor might the bonds of love again reclaimed him. Ecthelion headed a relieved council, the women clucked and fussed, and Denethor waited outside the doors of his quarters. He tried to hold Boromir, but the boy had grown used to playing with the other children and sparring with this grandsire. He could not stay still, and when Denethor placed him on his lap he soon wiggled off. His father swung him absently for a while with one arm, his eyes never leaving the doors beyond, but at length he sent the boy away with his overworked nurse and resumed his vigil outside the doors. Now he paid for months of silence, for each cry that came from her would make him jump from his seat, and then he would resume it, each time in greater agony of mind and heart.
This was no ordinary birth, for the wound Finduilas had sustained now came to life, and it endangered both her and the baby. That Denethor felt full responsibility for, and yet he was unable to mend or aid her. The maids ran in and out anxiously, and the healers had grave faces. As the hours wore away Finduilas began to cry out, and Denethor rose with clenched fists. Then her cries subsided, and he feared, but the voices of the women sounded joyful through the door. It was longer before they opened it, and the nurse stood there with a new bundle in her arms, just as she had five years before.
Denethor walked past the nurse for he only had eyes for his wife, and now that the months of agonized waiting were passed he felt they could begin again. She lay collapsed on the bed, barely conscious, and the maids now were removing large piles of linens and steaming bowls. There was a foul smelling brew that the healer, a nervous looking man, held to her lips, and she drank it without complaint. Denethor wished them gone so that he might climb into bed and hold her, but as it were he was able to clasp her hand, and stroke her cheek. She smiled then so peacefully that his felt almost joyful, and she soon passed into sleep.
Once she was no longer conscious, Denethor became aware of the healer, nervously hovering over his shoulder.
"Well?"
"My lord, I must tell you," the man stammered.
"Then tell me," Denethor replied in irritation.
"She cannot bear again my lord, she almost did not succeed this time."
Denethor took the news without comment, "is that all?"
"Why, yes, my lord"
He waved the man away, but to his great annoyance he stayed in the room. Denethor wanted to be alone with his wife. It was now when she was sleeping that he would see her most often, and say the things to her in the darkness that he could not during the day. He wanted to tell her what he hadn't over the past months, what her growing child had somehow forbidden him from saying. He loved her dearly, and he longed now to unburden his heart to her slumbering form, yet the room seemed still to be full of people.
"What is it?" He finally asked curtly of the maid who stood nearby
"My lord," she faltered, "do you not want to see your son?"
"No, he almost killed his mother." he replied, yet as he spoke duty came back, and his mind resumed its dominion over his tormented heart. The warmth his wife brought to him left. He no longer felt an overwhelming desire to stay in the room with her. Somewhere armies were moving, the world went on and would not stay for his private indulgences. He looked up from the bed and saw about him were several maids. The soiled linens were gone; the smells of blood and toil washed clean. The healer still stood by him, and there, so near he could touch him, was the tiny little bundle the milk nurse now held in her arms.
Then he saw their shocked and fearful faces, and he sighed. Duty as ever came back to him, and he reached out his arms for the child. As the warm little blanket entered his arms he felt his heart again begin to ache, and he swallowed and bid his heart quiet. Then he opened his eyes and looked into clear blue ones, and a great and overwhelming love came crashing through his heart and mind, though he would have denied it if he could. The baby's lips moved slightly and Denethor thought now that for good or ill things would never be as they were. A war was coming onto his land, and a rival' s interests would now ever be present in his house.
"Faramir," he said, handing the baby back.
The women then fluttered with approval, and paid homage to 'his little lordship.' The gesture made Denethor wince. There was little affection in him for this interloper who had all but killed his mother, but the love was already growing, demanding obeisance. He had held him for less than a minute, yet could no longer look on the baby as a mere child. He was the son of Finduilas, dearly brought forth through her toil, and for that reason Faramir would ever have a claim on his heart. Yet already there were many that claimed his heart, and he ever rued that it was an organ of such might, for he valued his mind more, and found one frequently seemed poised to overthrow the other. And now he must undertake yet another charge to vex them both.
But as the women passed the child to and fro it began to make happy gurgles, and he could be no more insensible to that sound than to the horns of his own men. Then he noticed the healer nearby was looking on mournfully. The man he recalled, had a horribly pedantic manner, and no doubt the lineage of that ill-fated name was not lost on him. Then Denethor, his duty to wife and child done, left the room, for he had a country to manage and with it the care of many men's children.
Finduilas spent many weeks doing little more than sleeping, for her pain was great, and the healer mixed potions so that she would not be aware of it. But she drew great comfort from the baby, and obvious pleasure from his presence. This soothed the hearts of her maids, for Denethor was hardly ever in the nursery. He took almost no notice of the child during his visits, instead focusing on his wife. The women reasoned it away by saying he was a man, and they took more interest in children when they were older, but it had not been his way with Boromir, and all remembered that as well.
Finduilas noted with pain how little attention Denethor gave his second son, for it had cost her much of her strength to bear him. She had hoped that Faramir would renew the joy of old between them, yet that hope came to nothing as the days passed. When she lay exhausted from her labor she wept, and the babe curled next to her wept as well.
Then her maid came to her and brought her a soothing drink, and she asked, "Why does he not acknowledge his own son, why should one be received so joyfully and this other seem of no account?"
"Hush," replied Miriel, "he's only a man, my lady, and what would you expect? Birth frights all men, and he was so filled with worry for you that he scarce could talk those first few hours, and for your husband that says much."
Then she left them to sleep, and Finduilas quieted Faramir, and she drew him close and looked upon him. He had blue eyes like a stormy sea that promised to grow into the grey of Boromir and Denethor. She kissed his dark hair and tiny puckered face that already seemed to feature his father. She sighed then at that ill-fated name, and wondered how any man could display such indifference to his own child.
"We must struggle then," she said to the sleeping infant, "against the darkness of these times. I am weak, and you are small, but we will have each other."
Denethor continued to pay nocturnal visits to Finduilas, where he would tell her of his hopes and fears and she would sleep peacefully and blissfully unaware. He changed the visits a little now, for after he had soothed his heart in talking to his sleeping wife he would stop by the nursery to see the infant. Then he would stand with a single candle and look down upon the baby features. He would run his hands over the fine little limbs, noting the slightness of the child compared to Boromir. He would look at the dark hair sprouting in the head, and look at each tiny little toe or chubby finger as they flexed. He would press his face against the gurgling round belly, smelling the milk and urine smell of infants, and watch the candlelight flicker and flame over the sleeping face. Sometimes Faramir's eyes would open and seek his own. Then the child would frown, as though echoing his own fears. He loved the child, that he could not deny, and when his eyes crossed or he yawned Denethor would sigh in love and agony. But he did not cease these nocturnal visits until his wife regained her health and they could no longer go unnoticed. Then he was banished entirely from the rooms by his own mind. He might contemplate each separately, but he could never face the two of them alone in the evening, these two who healed and tore at his heart equally. Battling the will of the Dark Lord was not as hard as it would have been to meet his wife's eyes, if she should ever chance to wake, while he searched his son for signs of Thorongil.