Denethor bowed his head resignedly as the last of the mourners left the
Silent Street. It had been several days since his father's death, but
Denethor still couldn't come to terms with the fact that Ecthelion was
gone, entombed in one of the plaster-and-stone coffins bearing his likeness
on the top- the one that had been prepared for him for many hundreds of
years. Denethor was, of course, the Ruling Steward of Gondor in his
father's stead, something he was certain he would fail utterly at.
Morbidly, Denethor cast a glance at the stone casket to the right of his
father's. It was built into the very floor of Rath Dinen, such as all the
others were- crafted ages ago at the building of Minas Tirith. This one,
however, was empty as of yet- and it awaited the death of Denethor so that
it could finally close- such thoughts crossed Denethor's mind until he
heard a hushed voice. "Milord?"
Denethor's sharp features softened a measure as he heard his young wife address him by his title. His breath caught slightly in his throat, just as it did nearly every time he saw her. She was wearing the blue overcoat that had been a gift from her father, Lord Adrahil. Her jet-black hair fell over her shoulders- it was down, just as Denethor preferred- and framed her fair face, which, Denethor noticed, had been unusually pale as of late. Even so, he smiled at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes as it usually did.
The days had grown so dark, and Ecthelion's death had left Denethor with many worries and difficulties, not least of which was the garrison at Osgiliath- the last line of defence for Minas Tirith. Denethor and his men had also been having serious trouble with the Haradrim that were passing through Ithilien. The Gondorian rangers had been doing their best to suppress their enemy, but their numbers were far too few. Denethor had realized that they were traveling to Mordor on top of everything else- and he was quite sure that they weren't exactly attacking Sauron's Black Gate.
However, he managed to put aside all of his newly-acquired troubles as his wife reached his side. She had recently returned from Dol Amroth, and though the journey seemed to have done her well, Denethor could tell that there was something amiss with her. A certain despair, perhaps, at having seen the darkness of Mordor after going so long without the sight of its evil. "Finduilas." He whispered her name and drew her near to him. She looked up at him, and, in her fair face and grey-black eyes, he saw the same trust of him that had always been there. "How I've missed you, Finduilas." He leaned over and kissed her deeply. She pulled back after several seconds and regarded Denethor with a teasing gleam in her eyes.
"Well, seeing as how you had the pleasure of my company just this morning, you couldn't have been longing for me so terribly."
He laughed, pulling her closer. "Ah, that's correct, I'd forgotten. You were away from Minas Tirith for so long." He had, in truth, been the one that had sent her to Dol Amroth, due to the supposed peril that Minas Tirith had been in at the time. It had been rumored that the Dark Lord Sauron would then launch his final attack, and, though Denethor highly doubted this, he decided not to take such a risk. "It grows late, my lady," he addressed her. "Shall we go thither?" He gestured toward the Citadel, the top of which was now stained crimson from the setting sun. "Speaking of which. where are my sons?"
"They are being taken care of," she answered him.
"That is well," replied Denethor, and with that, the two walked out of the house of the dead. Denethor pulled the door of the Silent Street shut, locked it, and the tombs were plunged into darkness.
It was in the upper part of the Citadel where the ruling family of Gondor had always dwelt. It seemed to Finduilas that it was ever cold, somber and. despairing there, and she longed for the open air and the sound of the sea that she had always taken for granted in Dol Amroth- always, that is, until she had wed Denethor. She had never become quite accustomed to the stone city of Minas Tirith, though it seemed to befit Denethor perfectly. Finduilas did not understand how one could live when their burial site was already prepared for them, and, even more pressing, how one could endure the almost palpable evil of Mordor that pressed upon fair Minas Tirith constantly. One was always threatened here. Finduilas knew that she could never ask Denethor to leave his city, not that she would, regardless. The one short occasion that he had traveled to Dol Amroth with her- she could recall the look in his deep grey eyes as Minas Tirith came into their field of vision, and when the silver trumpets of the White City "called him home," as he liked to put it. His eyes only lit up in that manner on one other circumstance- when he caught sight of her.
Hearing a child's cry stopped her mid-thought, and she got to her feet from her chair near the stone fireplace, next to which was a frighteningly lifelike carving in the wall of King Isildur. She had never thought highly of that man- for, if he had not succumbed to the power of the Ring, most of her current troubles would be nonexistent. She left the watchful gaze of Isildur's likeness and hurried into the adjacent room, where her year-old son clamored for her attention.
He and his six-year-old brother had accompanied her to Dol Amroth, despite the older's protests and desire to stay and "help kill Sauron." Denethor had given him a fond smile at this remark, for Denethor himself had just gifted the boy with a small blade of his own, though Finduilas half- protested that the child was far too young for such a weapon. Her younger brother, Imrahil, had not received a sword until his twelfth year, after all, and her son was but half that age. However, under Denethor's watchful eye, the boy had shown surprising precocious skill with the blade, and Finduilas had taken great pleasure in informing Imrahil that her child had the same talent with a sword that Imrahil had when he was twenty. He had laughed at that, taken his own sword, and gladly sparred for several hours with the seemingly tireless six-year-old.
Brushing her reminisces aside, Finduilas pulled her youngest into her arms. "Hush, Faramir, hush, my child." she whispered to him. At that moment, she heard a ripping sound coming from the room across from where she currently stood with Faramir. Finduilas went thither, where she found her eldest standing amidst a now-tattered wall hanging depicting the Last Alliance of Men and Elves and the demise of Sauron- another decoration that had adorned that very wall for centuries. There her child stood, sword in hand, attempting to look innocent.
"Boromir! What have you done?" admonished Finduilas.
"I. was just practicing with my blade, and I. sort of fell and grabbed onto this old hanging, and it kind of ripped. I don't really like elves anyhow," he added.
"Boromir! Do you have any idea how long that has been there? What your father shall say, I can't imagine. And why are you awake at this hour? And- wait. was not that blade in your father's and my chambers? Whence- how- did you acquire it? Surely he would not have just allowed you to take it."
A confused expression crossed Boromir's countenance. "Father wasn't in there."
Denethor's sharp features softened a measure as he heard his young wife address him by his title. His breath caught slightly in his throat, just as it did nearly every time he saw her. She was wearing the blue overcoat that had been a gift from her father, Lord Adrahil. Her jet-black hair fell over her shoulders- it was down, just as Denethor preferred- and framed her fair face, which, Denethor noticed, had been unusually pale as of late. Even so, he smiled at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes as it usually did.
The days had grown so dark, and Ecthelion's death had left Denethor with many worries and difficulties, not least of which was the garrison at Osgiliath- the last line of defence for Minas Tirith. Denethor and his men had also been having serious trouble with the Haradrim that were passing through Ithilien. The Gondorian rangers had been doing their best to suppress their enemy, but their numbers were far too few. Denethor had realized that they were traveling to Mordor on top of everything else- and he was quite sure that they weren't exactly attacking Sauron's Black Gate.
However, he managed to put aside all of his newly-acquired troubles as his wife reached his side. She had recently returned from Dol Amroth, and though the journey seemed to have done her well, Denethor could tell that there was something amiss with her. A certain despair, perhaps, at having seen the darkness of Mordor after going so long without the sight of its evil. "Finduilas." He whispered her name and drew her near to him. She looked up at him, and, in her fair face and grey-black eyes, he saw the same trust of him that had always been there. "How I've missed you, Finduilas." He leaned over and kissed her deeply. She pulled back after several seconds and regarded Denethor with a teasing gleam in her eyes.
"Well, seeing as how you had the pleasure of my company just this morning, you couldn't have been longing for me so terribly."
He laughed, pulling her closer. "Ah, that's correct, I'd forgotten. You were away from Minas Tirith for so long." He had, in truth, been the one that had sent her to Dol Amroth, due to the supposed peril that Minas Tirith had been in at the time. It had been rumored that the Dark Lord Sauron would then launch his final attack, and, though Denethor highly doubted this, he decided not to take such a risk. "It grows late, my lady," he addressed her. "Shall we go thither?" He gestured toward the Citadel, the top of which was now stained crimson from the setting sun. "Speaking of which. where are my sons?"
"They are being taken care of," she answered him.
"That is well," replied Denethor, and with that, the two walked out of the house of the dead. Denethor pulled the door of the Silent Street shut, locked it, and the tombs were plunged into darkness.
It was in the upper part of the Citadel where the ruling family of Gondor had always dwelt. It seemed to Finduilas that it was ever cold, somber and. despairing there, and she longed for the open air and the sound of the sea that she had always taken for granted in Dol Amroth- always, that is, until she had wed Denethor. She had never become quite accustomed to the stone city of Minas Tirith, though it seemed to befit Denethor perfectly. Finduilas did not understand how one could live when their burial site was already prepared for them, and, even more pressing, how one could endure the almost palpable evil of Mordor that pressed upon fair Minas Tirith constantly. One was always threatened here. Finduilas knew that she could never ask Denethor to leave his city, not that she would, regardless. The one short occasion that he had traveled to Dol Amroth with her- she could recall the look in his deep grey eyes as Minas Tirith came into their field of vision, and when the silver trumpets of the White City "called him home," as he liked to put it. His eyes only lit up in that manner on one other circumstance- when he caught sight of her.
Hearing a child's cry stopped her mid-thought, and she got to her feet from her chair near the stone fireplace, next to which was a frighteningly lifelike carving in the wall of King Isildur. She had never thought highly of that man- for, if he had not succumbed to the power of the Ring, most of her current troubles would be nonexistent. She left the watchful gaze of Isildur's likeness and hurried into the adjacent room, where her year-old son clamored for her attention.
He and his six-year-old brother had accompanied her to Dol Amroth, despite the older's protests and desire to stay and "help kill Sauron." Denethor had given him a fond smile at this remark, for Denethor himself had just gifted the boy with a small blade of his own, though Finduilas half- protested that the child was far too young for such a weapon. Her younger brother, Imrahil, had not received a sword until his twelfth year, after all, and her son was but half that age. However, under Denethor's watchful eye, the boy had shown surprising precocious skill with the blade, and Finduilas had taken great pleasure in informing Imrahil that her child had the same talent with a sword that Imrahil had when he was twenty. He had laughed at that, taken his own sword, and gladly sparred for several hours with the seemingly tireless six-year-old.
Brushing her reminisces aside, Finduilas pulled her youngest into her arms. "Hush, Faramir, hush, my child." she whispered to him. At that moment, she heard a ripping sound coming from the room across from where she currently stood with Faramir. Finduilas went thither, where she found her eldest standing amidst a now-tattered wall hanging depicting the Last Alliance of Men and Elves and the demise of Sauron- another decoration that had adorned that very wall for centuries. There her child stood, sword in hand, attempting to look innocent.
"Boromir! What have you done?" admonished Finduilas.
"I. was just practicing with my blade, and I. sort of fell and grabbed onto this old hanging, and it kind of ripped. I don't really like elves anyhow," he added.
"Boromir! Do you have any idea how long that has been there? What your father shall say, I can't imagine. And why are you awake at this hour? And- wait. was not that blade in your father's and my chambers? Whence- how- did you acquire it? Surely he would not have just allowed you to take it."
A confused expression crossed Boromir's countenance. "Father wasn't in there."
