Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, for they are J.R.R. Tolkien's and his alone.

A/N I have thought of another concept. What if Denethor had actually let his guard down a bit to much? Where is it said that Finduilas never looked in the stone? Exciting, is it not?

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It had been a while since he had last looked into it. Not since he had had the feeling, at least more than usual, that it looked back at him. Stared, more like. A strange feeling, washing over him like a wave of algae. His fingers felt like they were being pulled ever deeper into the depth of the sphere. It had been quite difficult for him to break the lock it held on him, and he could not arouse himself for quite some time to look into it again.

And today, he would finally take the risk. Climbing the winding staircase up the tower. The small door, its frame lit by incoming sunlight. Denethor locked the door behind him, and took a little time regaining his breath. He now found himself in a sunlit room. The walls were hardly adorned by anything, except for a tapestry with the line of the kings embroidered on it. On the other side of the room hung a different tapestry, one much newer, with the line of the house of the Stewards on it. Denethor had always had a fondness for that particular one. Namely because of the way he had come by it in the first place.

The Steward was often seen as a very precise man. Someone who could spot an error a mile away. So when the tapestries were made, he had kept a close eye on the correctness of them, in ways of stitching, proper lineage and of course correct spelling. All the tapestries were in order, save one. The seamstress who had sowed this one, had made a small mistake. Instead of saying Denethor the second, it said Denethor the third was father of Boromir ( it had been made before the birth of Faramir). Although he probably should have been vexed at this, Denethor had found it rather flattering. That the Stewards would last as long as to be able to have a Denethor the third. He certainly hoped so. He had, of course, given the seamstress a stern look. The poor girl had been in tears the whole afternoon, it was said. This had not been the steward's intent. He had felt sorry, but now it bothered him little. There were more important things to consider.

He pondered a while. Maybe this was not the time. He still had his lady and children to think of. And was she not sick, and in need of his help? He turned around and made his way to the door, when he felt that same strength that had held him before pull him back to the centre of the room. There, under a cloth embroidered with the symbol of the Stewards, lay the palantír. It was waiting for him.

Come, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, and rest your wearied head. See what none other can see. Have knowledge far beyond that of normal men. Come, and be released from ignorance.

It was done. The steward approached it with some care, yet not as much as was probably needed. He lifted the cloth, folded it and placed it carefully on a nearby stool. There it was, in all its splendour. Denethor placed his fingers carefully on the palantír and concentrated on seeing the western borders of his land. The sea, stretching out before him. The mountains. It reminded him once more what beauty he had inherited. His spirits where somewhat lightened, as he replaced the cloth over the seeing stone. It had been easy to wield it. No struggle, not that nasty tugging sensation he had experienced just moments before. All seemed calm. And then it hit him.

I cannot send her back to sea, but why could she then not see it here? It could provide her with the peace she needs. And she will be well again, and stand proudly by my side. So we can once again be lord and lady.

It had been a stroke of luck, that he had just now thought of it. This would do Finduilas some good, to be sure. To see her homeland, her kin, again without having to actually go there. A stroke of brilliance. All he should do now is see to it that she did.