DECAY

'Come to me, my dear! Long have I waited for you, and my patience grows thin. Come to me now, so we can be one again…'

No, I shall not yield. You will not seduce me with these empty words, promising though they might seem!

'Poor steward, I have done you ill, haven't I? Left you all alone, did I? No, I am always here. I yearn to be with you. That is my purpose. And what, if I may be so bold, is life without a purpose? Come here…'

Leave me…

The sun shone again. It had passed. At least, for now. The Steward looked up from his desk. There was still the imprint of random objects on his forehead. It gave the Steward a headache. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching. He heard the door open.

'Finduilas?'

A boy answered.

'No, father. It is your youngest son, Faramir. If it is convenient, I would like to speak with you.'

'It is not convenient. It never is. You always have this habit of showing up at the worst possible moment. At trait your mother possessed in just as great an amount. Take a seat, boy.'

Faramir sat down in a chair opposite the Steward's desk. He looked at his father with pleading eyes. Denethor recognised the look. His wife had thrown it at him on more then one occasion. He hated that look, because it had always rendered him helpless. With Faramir, however, he had just found it annoying. He didn't seem to be too comfortable either.

'Father, I would like to read the scroll of Isildur.'

Denethor stared. This was strange. How would the boy know of the scroll?

Of course!

Mithrandir.

The look on his face must not have been a very pleasant one, since Faramir had edged back a little from the table.

'Have I said something wrong, father? I didn't know...'

'No, you did not,. and stop making excuses for yourself. You know how it aggravates me.'

'So… yes father…'

'You may read it, if you tell me why.'

'I'm interested in the history of the Great Kings. For some reason, it feels a bit like going home…'

'You are home. Do not speak nonsense in front of your father.'

'Yes, father.'

'Go ahead, then. If you sincerely wish to do so, then read it! I shall not stop you.'

The boy smiled and bowed. Then ran as quickly and quietly as he could out of that dank office. He passed another room on the way. The door was open. Faramir was in nature a very curious boy, so he looked inside. The room was empty, except for some tapestries and a strange object that lay hidden under a cloth on an altar in the middle of the room. Faramir walked towards it cautiously. It was drawing him to it. It smelled familiar…like… something he had known long ago, but forgot. He extended his arm, and pulled away the cloth.

The black orb underneath sparkled anew in the sunlight, and Faramir could sense its power. It scared him, but the orb wouldn't let go. It dragged him ever closer, until Faramir could smell the decay of flesh.

'Come here, young boy, and let me ease your pain. Until the end…'

'FATHER!'

Denethor jumped up and ran towards the door, which had been closed the moment Faramir screamed. He pressed against it with all his might, but the door wouldn't budge. He kicked against it, slammed his fists on it, yelled at it but nothing would help. Faramir's screaming turned into quiet sobs, and then into silence. Through the door, Denethor could hear the boy being smothered. He leaned against the door and wept.

'Poor, weak Steward. So easily taken over by your own darkness…'

Where am I? What happened?

Denethor blinked as his eyes were getting used to the sunlight. No, this must be another dream. Or not? He didn't know anymore. He listened for footsteps in the corridor, was relieved when none reached his ears and went back to work. The incident had hidden itself, waiting for an opportunity to present itself anew.

The slow decay of the steward.