Author's Note: This story has quite a long history, really. It started out about a year ago as an AU fic exploring what might have happened had Aragorn stayed in Minas Tirith until the death of the Steward Ecthelion II. and decided to claim the throne that was his by right. Basically it played with the idea of having a King Aragorn Thorongil reigning in Minas Tirith instead of a Steward Denethor by the time of the War of the Ring. Well, what to say? I didn't have the patience to finish the AU and gave up after about 12 pages mostly exploring Aragorn's/Thorongil's relationship to Denethor. It didn't work out so I decided to forget about this fic...
A while ago I began thinking about writing a Denethor/Finduilas fic (thanks to Cadi and Astara for inspiring me) and I remembered that my old AU had quite a lot of Denethor/Finduilas so I decided to take those parts, rewrite them, add some more stuff and turn the whole thing from AU into a canon Denethor/Finduilas fic. This involved the POV miraculously shifting from Thorongil to Imrahil and A LOT of changes to my characterization of Denethor. While the original fic, being told from Thorongil's perspective, involved a quite different, pretty dark and mysterious Denethor, this fic features ANGSTY!DENETHOR... and when I say angsty I mean REALLY angsty (as well as angsty!Imrahil I might add)... lol I know that some people might consider this OOC and maybe they're right. I still won't change it because... well, I love angsty characters and I'm really not good at writing anything BUT angst.
Characters do – of course – belong to Professor Tolkien and Professor Tolkien only. No movie!Denethor here (shudder), maybe a tiny little bit of movie!Boromir seeing that I kind of see Sean Bean whenever I think about Boromir now (I'm not sure if that's a good thing though... ;)).
At the time of the story Boromir is about 25 years old which makes Faramir 20 years old.
This is very much a collection of fragments that somewhat lacks coherence and continuity and features horribly pathetic use of imagery. I really hope to improve it once I either get constructive criticism or my muses (and Denethor who's mad at me and insists he was never THAT angsty) decide to cooperate.
Thanks for your patience! :)
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When we two partedIn silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss,
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!
- Lord Byron – 'When we two parted...'
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The Hearts Of The Valiant
'My Lord', he says, trying hard to immitate the formality of the other captains he so likes to make fun of, and bows stiffly, voiceless laughter dancing in his eyes, and I can't help but notice how different he is from his father even though he is so like him in looks that every time I look at him I feel as if somehow time had been turned back and I saw Denethor again, young and handsome as he once was. And proud, so proud. And in his smile I sometimes see a distant memory of the way Denethor used to smile, before the shadow fell across his heart and before bitterness began to rule his soul.
'Boromir...' I say and he smiles. It is indeed Denethor's smile, I think, the smile I hardly know and that is yet imprinted in my memory. It is the kind of smile that you see once and remember for the rest of your life, the rare sunrise in a land of shadow, a land of darkness, but never quite as dangerous if you know there can be such light. No, even through the years we have never been that close, close enough for him to smile at me like that. It was someone else who made the hiding sun rise in his eyes, and even then only for moments before the inevitable nightfall. I remember the smile on his face when he looked first upon Finduilas, so young and so fair. Finduilas, daughter to Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth by the sea, sister to Imrahil...
Oh Finduilas, my darling sister, I miss you so.
Finduilas who was the sunrise in a life that had, even then, known too much suffering and too much doubt, too much death and much too little life.
I have never heard him say her name again, I suddenly think, wondering where the thought came from, never, not once since the morning came and chased away a starless night in Súlimë (1). But I've seen him flinch, every time, at the thoughtless words of the servants in the hallways and the offhand remarks of the nobles at Mettarë (2). Every time.
Memory is the knife in the heart of the valiant, I've heard them say in Harad (3). And seen him flinch, every time.
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'You remember her, don't you?' Faramir asked me once and I believe there was a hint of envy in his voice. I laughed then.
'Of course. She was my sister.' When I looked at him I expected him to smile but he didn't, not this time, and I felt strangely helpless.
'Yes', I said. 'Yes. I think nobody who knew her will ever forget her... She wasn't the kind of person you'd just forget, your mother...' I trailed off, not knowing what to say to his sad eyes and the gentle wisdom in their depths that seemed so out of place in a boy his age.
He has inherited your eyes, Finduilas, and for that Denethor will not forgive him.
'Then help me remember her, uncle', he said after a long while and I nodded. Because he deserves to remember, because she deserves to be remembered.
Finduilas, beautiful as the rising morning, who gave her hand to a man many years her senior with a smile on her face and hope in her eyes. I did not understand, then, because I loved her so.
'Denethor', she said and laughed. "Denethor who will be Steward of Gondor and your brother, Imrahil." No, I did not understand, because I could not bear to lose her.
But I remember standing next to Ecthelion at his son's wedding and I remember his eyes shining with pride as he watched them. And I remember Denethor's smile when Finduilas laughed as she made the vow and I think I have never seen him happier than in that moment when he took her hands in his and kissed her in the silence ere the silver trumpets sang their blessing from the walls of the White Tower. And I forgave him.
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There was a time when I believed that she could save him, from the dark and the cold. But even before she gave birth to Denethor's first son, the heir to the Stewardship, her star began to pale and a shadow fell across her smile and pain ever lingered in her eyes, a pain I knew for what it was when I first saw it veil the light of her beauty. I knew her too well. I knew her too well to pretend I could save her.
And Denethor, ever afraid to lose her, refused to see, even though, I do not doubt it, he knew, maybe even before I did.
But I still remember the pride in his eyes as he took her in his arms the day his son was born and I remember that, weak though she was, her smile defeated the shadow, one last time. I remember her smile contrasting her pale face as she sat beside him in the hall of the White Tower, clad in a mantle lined with silver stars that I knew to be Denethor's gift (4), as he named the child Boromir after the 11th Ruling Steward of Gondor, Boromir, Jewel of War, Denethor's heir.
Boromir, grown to manhood in a time of darkness, Boromir with his father's smile on his lips. But Denethor now never smiles.
I remember the night Finduilas lost the fight against the shadow that had been growing in her heart for much too long a time (5). And I remember her, a pale reflection of her former beauty, and Denethor standing beside me, trembling so violently I thought he would break any second, but never crying, never crying. Because he was too proud, so they said, but I knew better. I knew that he did not want her to see his tears, did not want to burden her with his grief, her whom he loved more than anything in the world, her he knew he was losing. But even then she tried to smile and I can still hear the words she said to me when she looked at me, the sad knowledge of time running out in her clouded eyes.
'Do not grieve too much for me, my brother... all will be well...'
I willed myself to smile as I kissed her cold brow and smoothed her dark hair back from her face as I had done so often when we were young. And it hurt. It hurt so.
'Imrahil...' I remember her voice, hardly more than a whisper. 'Imrahil... you must promise...'
And I promised. But when I turned away my eyes burned from the tears I dared not cry.
She turned to Denethor then and he knelt beside her bed, taking her hands in his, kissing her palms and what she told him then I do not know. But when she had ended he took her in his arms and wept silently, his face buried in her hair, whispering her name, time and time again. Finduilas. Finduilas. Only ever Finduilas. And when he released her at last she was still.
So pale, Finduilas, so pale. Why did you make me promise? Oh why did you make me promise?
He bade me leave and I won't ever forget his eyes as he looked at me, I won't ever forget the emptiness, nor his voice cold as a knife and quiet as death, so utterly devoid of emotion. I was afraid that night, afraid for him.
Did you make him promise to live, Finduilas?
The sky was clear and the sun shone with a searing flame, merciless, as if to torture those that lined the streets to bid farewell, to honour her name, one last time for they had loved her well, fair Finduilas of Dol Amroth by the sea. And I remember Denethor, remember him, broken, broken and - old. In a single night he had changed, and it pained me to look upon him and remember the man he had once been, because there was nothing left. I remember Boromir, only a child then, fighting his tears, and Faramir, clutching his brother's hand, not quite understanding, tears streaming down his face as he desperately held on to his brother as if fearing to be lost, afraid to be swept away, alone in a grief threatening to overwhelm him, a pain he felt but never understood, back then.
But Denethor did not cry and there was no emotion in his ashen face as he entered the Halls of the Dead in the silence of Rath Dínen alone to bid her farewell (6). They did not understand him and in their ignorance called him cold and heartless.
They have not seen him, riding from Dol Amroth at first light, year after year, shortly before Súlimë turns into Víressë, clad in a black cloak, hood drawn up to hide his face, riding into the shadows of dawn to where the ground gently slopes upward in the distance.
For the weeping wind that carries the rain to the plains beyond the tower of Dol Amroth and further east to the hills of Dor-en-Ernil and the River Gilrain, the wind, so they say, carries the memory of her tears and a whisper of her voice.
They have not seen him come back at nightfall, his face even paler than usual, his eyes hollow and his gaze haunted, like one who has died, not once but over and over again. (7)
They have only seen him return to the White City, proud and bitter, and avoided his gaze for fear he might see right through their guilty souls with his piercing eyes that seem to read faces like parchment. (8)
I wonder if Boromir knows, of the grief that his father keeps so well hidden beneath his pride, if he knows just how much he lost. He has never asked me to help him remember, he is too proud, so like him. Faramir once told me that they speak of her sometimes, of her gentleness and her beauty as of a memory impossible to grasp and a dream lacking the feel of reality. But I remember what we were before the night fell, I guess that's what makes the difference.
I remember you, sister. As he remembers you. And it hurts to know that it took this grief to make him my brother, now that he will have neither my pity nor my friendship.
There is so much you do not know, Boromir, born into a time of shadow rising, Boromir, trying so hard to be brave. Boromir, Boromir, ever, ever so brave. He looks so terribly young, not much more than a boy to me, his handsome face illuminated by the pride shining from his eyes. Jewel of War, I think. He has named you well indeed, Boromir.
'So you have returned again, victorious, Captain.' I say and he laughs. It's strange, the thoughts that slip into your mind unbidden, just like that, when you least expect them. But I don't think I've ever heard Denethor laugh.
Is that what it sounds like, Finduilas?
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More notes:
(1) a starless night in Súlimë - as far as I know there's no canon date (month and day) for Finduilas' death (if I'm wrong PLEASE tell me) so I had to make one up. I decided on Súlimë a long time ago when I needed the month for a poem so in my fanfic-verse Finduilas dies at the end of Súlimë 2988 TA.
(2) Mettarë is the last day of the year and a holiday.
(3) Memory is the knife in the heart of the valiant – there is no such saying in Harad as far as canon goes, sorry to disappoint you... ;) I made this up. But I thought that it's entirely possible Imrahil has been to Harad and might have picked it up somewhere along the way. We know so little about Harad, so why not?
(4) A little cameo for the 'starry mantle' from one of my favourite chapters from LotR, 'The Steward and the King'. We know that the mantle once belonged to Finduilas so I thought it would be a nice idea to have Denethor give it to her as a gift after the birth of his firstborn. Because IMHO Denethor actually LOVES his wife!!!
(5) There is no canon proof for Imrahil's presence at Finduilas' deathbed but I can well imagine Finduilas wanting her brother to be with her (and he wanting to be at his sister's side for that matter).
(6) I assume that Finduilas, being the wife of the Steward, had the right to a place in one of the halls lining Rath Dínen. I'm not sure about this one and if anybody knows better I'd be grateful if you told me.
(7) All of this comes directly from my disturbed mind and no hints towards any of this can be found in canon... unless I have some sort of scary powers... ;) Dor-en-Ernil and the River Gilrain exist though.
(8) The appendices state that Denethor had the ability to read men's hearts which Faramir inherited. Maybe it's got something to do with the Palantír but I do think there's more to it.