Denethor climbed the worn stairs to the very top of the Citadel slowly, deliberately. He had debated with himself over and again about whether this was the right course of action to take, but try as he did, he could see no other way. There was no "right course" or "wrong course" in his mind, there was only one. He had spent countless hours, whilst Finduilas, Faramir and Boromir were away, in his study, poring over the ages-old writings of past kings of Gondor. Much to his dismay, he found that none of them, not even at the height of Gondor's power, had dared to do what he, not even a pure Numenorean king but a Steward with but a drop of Numenorean blood, was about to do.

They had all known about it: Isildur, Anarion, even his own father. so why, why had they not used it to their advantage? Such a tool would have proved invaluable in many of the crises the kings of the past had faced. Yet nothing seemed to compare to Gondor's present peril- for what could be more threatening than Sauron with renewed power? The Dark Lord would strike Minas Tirith harder than anyone could know. If he, Denethor, Ruling Steward of Minas Tirith, could only see Sauron's mind, he could give Gondor at least a slight advantage against the Dark Lord. Despite his rationalizing, Denethor's blood ran cold when at last he reached the top of the flight of stairs.

The sky surrounding Minas Tirith was dark, save for a faint red glow where Denethor assumed Mount Doom must lie, as he gazed out of the tower window. He strode steadily toward the grey door engraved with elven runes that was at the top of the stairs, and pulled it open. Within lay a room with little furnishing, save a banner bearing the Tree and Stars which was hung on one wall, and a pillar of black stone which was approximately half of Denethor's height that stood in the precise center of the hexagonal chamber. The darkness seemed to close in around Denethor as he approached the column. Atop it rested a spherical object veiled in a thick black cloth. Denethor put out a trembling hand and removed the black veil.

What lay beneath the veil was nothing particularly remarkable, not to the unknowing eye. It was a rather small, jet-black sphere. However, if one were to rest their hand upon it, they would discover strange warmth, almost as if the object were alive. Along with this, the blackness of the sphere seemed to swirl about in its very depths. Denethor immediately noticed the latter, instantly enraptured as he was by its darkness, the evil darkness of the palantir.

Breathing quickly, he moved closer to the palantir. He knew exactly what he was dealing with: two months of research on the matter had not been soon forgotten. Denethor also knew who held the palantir, or seeing-stone, that was closest linked with the one he was presently gazing into. He realized that it was Sauron- in fact, that was what he was depending on. He intended to go through with this once, and only once. He would discover Sauron's strategy. He, Denethor, would single-handedly save Minas Tirith from the very grasp of the Dark Lord! Such thoughts attacked the Steward as he rested his hand atop the palantir.

He had no intention of communicating with Sauron- not in the least. Denethor only intended to secretly discover the Dark Lord's plots. However, as he looked further into the palantir, he still could see nothing but vague black mists. He clenched the fist that was not resting on the seeing- stone as he though of a way to, perhaps, find what he sought.

In a voice much less steady than he would have preferred, Denethor spoke to the darkness. "Show me what I seek." He shuddered as he heard himself speak- for he was using the black tongue of Mordor. Denethor gasped at his newly- acquired language and was about to turn and exit the dark chamber when the palantir began to glow with a red light. His eyes grew wide as the palantir's image shifted. Within, he saw a terrible image that had only haunted his darkest dreams: Minas Tirith going up in flames. The image shifted fluidly, without his consent, to a lush, grassy clearing near a river that he assumed to be the Anduin.

In the clearing stood a tall man with black hair who strongly resembled Denethor himself. Denethor saw the man's face as the palantir allowed, and furrowed his brow as he viewed the strange man's eyes. For a reason unbeknownst to the Steward, he felt as if he knew this man. A desperate look haunted the man's eyes, and it looked as if there had just been a great battle, with this man as the victor. Denethor smiled proudly at this, though he knew not why. Many of the enemy lay strewn about the grass- orcs? Goblins? Denethor had never seen this kind of dark contrivance before. Still more of them, far too many for any mortal- or immortal, in that case, to handle- were appearing through the trees. The palantir skipped ahead- to later in the same battle, Denethor assumed. A black-feathered arrow cleaved the air- it found its mark. The man cried out as the deadly projectile struck him; then, he looked down in shock at the arrow protruding from his chest. He attempted to slay still more of the foe- against overwhelming odds, and was hit several times more before finally crumpling to the ground.

"No." whispered Denethor. "No!" The palantir denied his wishes to see the further fate of the man, instead portraying a fleet of black ships, apparently filled with corsair soldiers. Then the man must have died. Denethor wasn't sure why he minded- he had never seen this man before in his life- or had he?

Any connection Denethor tried to make between that man and any he knew was abruptly cut off, as the palantir showed him a sight more evil than any he had witnessed in all his years. It was an eye, veiled in flame, and its gaze penetrated Denethor's very being. Denethor was unaware that he now had both hands on the seeing-stone, gripping it tightly. There was just this, this battle he could not possibly win. In some last, desperate attempt to escape, Denethor grasped the black cloth and threw it over the palantir. His stern will gave out, as did his legs, and the Steward crashed to the floor, striking his head upon its dark tiling, and his vision faded to black.