Paths of Peril -- A Dynasty Broken Book II

By Adara

Thanks to JMac for comparing my last chapter to the writings of Louis Lamour. I am flattered, of course. My sincere thanks to those readers who have reviewed this story. It is a labor of love and so I continue.

Denethor finally awakens in this chapter. I believe that Denethor fans may actually like the new and improved Steward of Gondor.

The Steward Returns

Denethor II, Steward of Gondor since the death of his father, Ecthelion II, woke abruptly from a macabre nightmare filled with horrific images of death and wanton brutality. The corporeality of the dream left him straining for breath, and his large frame shook as though wracked by fever. Denethor shook his head to clear away the last vestiges of the dream, then looked closely about his surroundings. He was lying on a soft bed within the Houses of Healing. He recognized the room, for it was used solely for those of the highest rank. What am I doing here? Certainly I am not ill.

Irritated, Denethor threw back the covers and swung his feet over the side of the bed. His irritation rose a notch when he realized there were no slippers beside the bed. He had instructed his valet to always place slippers beside his bed so long as he remained within the White City. "Marric! Marric where are you?" Denethor shouted. How dare they leave him alone and unattended. His irritation quickly flared into indignation. The twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor enjoyed the privileges that came with his position and title, and he never hesitated to chastise anyone showing disrespect for either. As he began to rise from the bed, the door to the sick room opened and his manservant, Marric, entered. The man's eyes widened in astonishment as he sputtered, "My Lord, they did not tell me that you are conscious. We all have worried that you would never… Praise the Valar for your recovery!"

"What are you babbling on about? Why am I in the Houses of Healing? Fetch my son, Boromir, immediately."

Marric looked extremely uncomfortable. "My Lord Steward, your eldest son has not been within these walls for at least the past two moons." At Denethor's look of cold rage, Marric retreated a couple of steps. "Shall I send for the Lord Faramir? He has been by your side almost constantly since you… took ill."

Denethor stared at him narrowly. "What is this illness of which you speak?"

The manservant shifted from one foot to the other nervously. "My Lord, why don't I fetch your youngest son? I am certain he can answer all your questions."

The Steward nodded, giving his consent for the man to leave on the agreed upon errand. When he was alone again, Denethor began to scour his memory for the last thing that he could remember. He finally was able to recall the pre-nuptial revelry in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts. When had he fallen ill? Denethor felt a fleeting chill on the back of his neck and quickly looked around. The window was tightly shut. 'Twas no draft that had caused Goosebumps to form on his flesh. The door opened and Faramir strode into the room. His father read the relief -- and the wariness -- which crossed his face in rapid succession. "I was on my way here when I ran into Marric. He told me the good news."

Denethor realized by the tone of Faramir's voice that his son was not certain how good the news was. He looked strained and ill at ease. Denethor stood slowly and deliberately. He pinned his son with a stony stare before speaking. "What has happened? My fool of a manservant spoke of some illness. Why am I not in the Citadel within my own chambers?"

Faramir cleared his throat. "What is the last thing you remember, Father?"

Denethor recognized that Faramir was hesitant to apprise his father of recent events. He had taught both his sons how to deflect another's question with one of their own. It was a very effective stalling tactic. "Do not play games with me, boy. I asked you a pointed question and I expect a direct answer. Now!"

At the Steward's barked command, Faramir squared his shoulders and stood at attention. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back to hide the slight tremor from his father's eagle eyes. "You have not been yourself since the celebration of Boromir's upcoming marriage."

The Steward studied his son closely. "Go on."

"Well, sir, your actions were not normal. I am hesitant to go into details without your physician's leave. He gave strict orders that, once you regained consciousness, you were not to be bothered with matters that may cause undue distress."

Denethor moved with catlike quickness and struck his son across the face with the back of his hand. When he spoke, his tone was dangerous. "How dare you disobey a direct order from your Steward. I shall brook no disobedience, especially from my own flesh and blood. You serve Gondor in your current rank at my pleasure. Do not cross me."

Faramir stiffened visibly at the implied threat. His cheek stung from his father's slap. "Does my Lord Steward wish to hear the entire truth?"

"That would be most refreshing," Denethor replied sarcastically.

"Very well, Father. I have been acting Steward for almost a month… since the night we carried you to this room. You became ensnared by the Dark Lord and unwittingly carried out his plan to destroy Minas Tirith from within." Faramir's tone was emotionless and his stare was carefully blank. Denethor's eyes became small black orbs and he shook with rage.

"How dare you accuse the ruling Steward of Gondor of consorting with the enemy! Have you gone mad? This is a preposterous tale. I should have you detained within these walls until you begin to make some sense."

"You had best listen to your son, Denethor, for he speaks the truth." The Prince of Dol Amroth was standing in the open doorway, one hand resting lightly upon his sword hilt. He had witnessed his brother-in-law strike Faramir.

Denethor looked from the grim countenance of one man to the even grimmer countenance of the other. Could it be true? Could he have become an unwitting pawn in Sauron's plans to capture the White City? "Speak, Captain Faramir. I demand a full account of events since the feast in the Great Hall. Spare me nothing. If what you say is the truth, I have committed treason."

Faramir and his uncle exchanged relieved glances. Denethor sounded quite sane. Faramir proceeded to provide a detailed account of his father's most recent activities. The Steward turned pale during the recounting of the rape of the Princess of Rohan, but he remained silent. When his son repeated Mithrandir's account of the confrontation in the tower, Denethor sank slowly onto the bed, his face cradled in his hands. "Imrahil, please, tell me this is not true."

"Would that I could, Denethor. But everything the lad says is fact. The wizard said you used one of the Numenorean seeing-stones, which allowed the Dark Lord to bend your mind and will to help bring about the fall of Minas Tirith. Eledwhen fled the city and refused to return when your sons found her, for obvious reasons. Boromir decided to take the Princess with him to Imladris. After you ordered the Prince of Rohan imprisoned in the Citadel dungeons, I saved Theodred from the torture that you ordered. We came within a hair's breadth of war with Rohan. If not for Mithrandir's timely appearance, Sauron's forces could have marched into the city without any resistance. We were on the brink of a civil upheaval that would have made Gondor's kin-strife seem mild by comparison. All was madness and chaos."

Denethor groaned. He looked as though he had aged a decade in the past half an hour. His noble face was gray and his proud features had gone slack. "My foolish pride almost cost everything we have fought for. You should have clamped me in chains in the dungeon. At least there I could have done no harm to my people."

Prince Imrahil and Faramir relaxed. They had been prepared for denials, for outraged indignation… anything but total acceptance of the facts. For the first time since meeting Ecthelion's heir, the Prince of Dol Amroth felt something other than strong dislike for the man.

"What is done, is done. Very few know the true facts of these events, and none that do will repeat them. The people of Gondor know only that their Steward suffered a debilitating illness. I must add that Faramir has done an exemplary job as acting Steward." The Prince of Dol Amroth studied Denethor closely as he spoke. His dead sister's husband seemed quite shaken, but there was no sign of deceit.

Faramir went to his father and bent down on one knee beside the bed. Gently he took the older man's hands in his. "Everything within the city is as well as it can be. Yet there are pressing matters about which I could use your advice… when you are fully recovered."

Denethor squared his shoulders. "I am fit to rule now. Are you prepared to relinquish your control of Minas Tirith?"

Imrahil did not like the look of suspicion and jealousy that burned in the Steward's eyes as he looked upon his youngest son. True, such a reaction seemed normal for Denethor, but it also hinted at something more sinister. "Perhaps we should leave Faramir at the White City's helm, with you as advisor, until we can be certain that the shadow of the Dark Lord has completely passed from your mind." Denethor's eyes hardened and his face, so pale mere moments before, became deeply flushed.

"Uncle Imrahil only wants what is best for you and for our people." Faramir's tone was impersonal, but the soft gray eyes that searched his father's face were pleading. The Steward finally nodded.

"If everything has been as you both say, then perhaps I do bear watching. Send Adanomir to me. I would hear his assessment of my condition. Also, send for Marric. I need hot water for a bath as well as a change of clothes. Then we three shall hold council."

Faramir rose to his feet and gave his father a respectful bow. "All shall be as you wish." Saying that, Faramir left his father's sick room, followed slowly by the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor watched them through narrowed eyes, tormented by doubts. He could not help but feel that those two harbored plans to take control of Gondor.

Stop that! Such thoughts are both foolish and dangerous; yet I shall watch them closely. They say I have been under the influence of the evil one. How do I know this to be true? Perhaps it is they who have been swayed to darkness. I must be cautious and on my guard, and not just against them, but myself. If what they say is true, then I must have been out of my mind. That poor child, how she must hate and despise me. And Boromir… Denethor shuddered at the thought of how his heir would deal with the man who had raped his betrothed. Yet I am his father, and his liege lord. He will understand and, in time, forget and forgive. For the survival of our nation, it must be so.

To be continued