Disclaimer: do not own any of mr. Tolkien's characters, for they are his. If any other characters show up that are not his, then they are most likely to be mine. Well, that ought to do it.

The object of my affection

Part one Flower of the seaward vales

"Denethor loved her, in his fashion, more dearly than any other, unless it were the elder of the sons that she bore him."

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, appendix A: The Stewards

There was, of course, no need for a second child to be born. But fait thought otherwise, and set her mind in favour of it. And so it was, that Faramir was born. The celebrations lasted exactly three days and three nights. The people of Gondor were elated that their steward had been blessed with not one, but two healthy sons to secure the continuance of the Steward-line. Gifts came in from all kinds of places. A lot of important people came to visit, thinking this the ideal moment for some old-fashioned networking.

The hall was crowded with men of high-ranking and their spouses, chatting merrily of things that, for once, had nothing to do with state affairs. Even the otherwise grave-looking monoliths had taken on an air of good cheer. The air felt rich with glee and laughter. Today was the last day of celebration, tomorrow it was back to business.

Regretfully, Denethor thought to himself, as he looked around the crowded hall. Tomorrow, it would be silent again. Silence, interrupted by regular intervals of serious meetings, conferences, arguments. It didn't do the place any good, he decided. This happiness was what it needed to breath. What he needed, though not being an active participant in said happiness. He listened, rather than talked. Read, rather then wrote. In most things, he seemed to himself a rather passive man. But this was not completely true. Denethor was a very committed statesman, who kept a close watch on Gondor and its many affairs. Quick to read other peoples minds.

Yet, that last thing brought him more disappointment and discomfort than that it brought him pleasure. Disappointment mostly in other peoples way of thinking, or their abilities. He had found, for one thing, that some were unable to read and write. This, at least in the beginning, shocked him. As a young boy he had thought that everyone could read and write, that it was a necessity for all to be well acquainted with the books and parchments that told tales of the kings of old. Instead, most people had heard them from their parents or grand-parents, who had heard from their parents, and so on. The boy had been slightly appalled at this, but the man had learned to accept it. There was very little he could do about it, Steward though he was. People didn't have the time to learn it, all their time being occupied by either trade, or farming, or both. Most of the children learned a bit of reading, but soon had to drop out of school because they had to work, or because it was simply too expensive. This grieved Denethor to no end, because he knew from experience that age did not improve ones skill to learn, but rather diminished it. Most of the aristocracy, however, possessed some skill in letters and that cheered him up a bit. It had to start somewhere.

He smiled and looked at his wife. This was the first day that she was out of bed. Giving birth to young Faramir had taken a lot out of her, and she hadn't been feeling very good for a long while either. She said it was the pregnancy, but the Steward doubted that. He had seen in her eyes that yearning to be away. Not from him. Not particularly, anyway. He knew his silence sometimes annoyed her. No, what she missed was the salt in the air. The penetrating smell of the sea, the reassuring sound of the waves. There was no sea here, only the river Anduin flowing through Osgiliath. A city under constant siege of enemy forces.

Also, the darkness that lay across the river tugged at her fragile form, and slowly diminished her to an empty shell. It was beginning to show now in her features, as it had before in her looks. Yet she never complained about it. Never mentioned it, either, which he found disturbing. He was her husband, after all. Wasn't she obliged to tell him? His mind said 'yes', his hart said 'no' and his soul settled uncomfortably on the wooden stool in between. It was often like that, when he thought about her. He loved her, he loved her so much. She and Boromir were dear to his hart. Ah, but what about the youngest. What about Faramir? The little voice inside his head asked. Hmmm. He was instantly disgusted with himself. This is your son, and all you can utter is: hmmm! He silently cursed himself. Though Faramir had been a bit of an accident, he didn't regret it one bit. He had been a product of love, and therefore just as welcome as Boromir, who's coming was a bit more forced than that of his younger brother. Producing an heir was what really mattered back then. Should he then love Boromir less?

Impossible. That little boy had stolen his heart ever since he first laid eyes on him. Something nobody could ever imagine; Denethor, Steward of Gondor, melting into a puddle. He chuckled as silently as he could, because he couldn't really hold it back but didn't want everyone to hear. Some things are best kept to oneself.     

'My lord?' She had sneaked up behind him. How did she do that?

'Yes, dearest?'. He answered.

'May I be excused from further celebrations? My head aches and I am weary.'

'Of course. A nights' rest will do you good. Is young Boromir asleep?'

'They both are.'

'. yes.' He kissed her hand. 'Goodnight, dearest.'

'Goodnight.'

He silently swore at himself for leaving the youngest out again.

That night, when at last he had the hall to himself again, he decided to check up on his offspring. He walked through a door, into a long hallway and then up a flight of stairs. He opened the door to his oldest son's bedroom. Boromir was already asleep. All this celebration had taken a lot out of him. People were constantly asking him about his brother, and he was never too tired to tell them how wonderful it was to have one. They could go riding together. And when they were old enough, they could go hunting and shoot a deer for father to eat at a banquet.

Everyone had found it quite endearing, the way Boromir was going on about his brother. Denethor had found it remarkable. From now on, he would have to share his father's attention with his brother. But Boromir didn't mind sharing. He loved his brother dearly, and would always be looking after him. When people were standing around Faramir's crib, the little boy would always warn them not to make the baby cry, or he would be very angry with them. But as he lay sleeping there, anger seemed to be the last thing on Boromir's mind.

With a smile on his face, Denethor closed the door. Opposite Boromir's room lay the nursery, where Faramir was now sound asleep. An hour before he had been crying, but the nanny had fed and comforted him and all was silent once more.

Finduilas had found it difficult at times to leave her son, and now sons, in the care of a nanny. But it was common knowledge that the lady of Gondor was not supposed to raise her children or take much care of them at all. She did, though she would never let her husband know, care for them very often. To pass her believes on to her sons was what she really wanted, not to let some nanny raise them. It wasn't a bad nanny, just not one who would contribute much to the children's learning experience. No, that had to come from their mother. She heard the footsteps of her husband as he opened the door to the older boy's bedroom.

Silently closing the door.opening another door.

In the nursery, all was quiet. The nanny slept behind a door in the back of the room, which was ajar. The baby slept soundly in his cradle. The soft rush of the wind outside. It was peaceful. The way the moon lighted up the young boy's features. Yet, Denethor's feelings for his youngest son were unchanged. He loved him, but something was in the way. He just couldn't decide what it was, exactly. He closed the door and went to bed. His lady was already asleep, but moving now and then in her sleep as if running away.

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Dark dreams troubled her, that would not go away no matter how hard she screamed at them. And in those dreams there were horrible faces leering at her from all sides. Pulling at her dress, clawing at her face. She would try to run away from them, but they were everywhere, endless seas of faces. Some old, some young. Just when she thought she had got away, they were there again. But this time, they were not human. High pitched noises came from under black hoods, as they came towards her. Whispering fowl things of death, mutilation, rape. What was to come, they said. The end of Men. They whispered of suicide, they whispered of hunger and disease.

And then there was the silence. And the heat. She remembered the heat most of all. She would turn around, and would see it burning in the distance. The great eye, that looked right at her. Sucking her into it's black oval-shaped Iris.

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