Someone suggested that I should do a second chapter for Sins of the
Father. Well, this isn't really a second chapter as such, but an
extension of the idea as to why Denethor rejects Faramir.
Basically, this is just another possibility.
Sins of the Father – 2.
Boromir had witnessed his father's anger on many occasions, but this was something more. The stewards's face was distorted into a mask of malevolent rage, and also – though it distressed him to believe it – sheer hatred. The object of Denethor's anger was, as usual, his youngest son. Faramir had just returned to Minas Tirith with the news that orcs had taken control of Par Bellas, a hill on the outskirts of Ithilien, which had been a crucial vantage point for the Rangers.
Boromir's fist clenched in frustration. His brother was a fine soldier and a good leader – all the more so because he'd had to work at it, for it didn't come naturally to him. He would have preferred to spend his days with his nose in a book, learning about the various races of Middle Earth, of their culture, their languages, and their history. He was a quiet and peaceful soul, but he recognised that the time in which they lived allowed little opportunity for self-indulgence.
Faramir's head ached. He hadn't slept for two days, and his body bore swollen purple and blue contusions, the legacy of the long battle with the hordes of Mordor orcs who launched their attack on the Ithilien outpost with numbers that vastly outweighed those of the Rangers. He could still hear his father's voice, but he no longer knew what he was saying. His mind was fixed on the men he had lost and their families who were still waiting for news. He'd heard it all before anyway, more times than he cared to remember. Usually he would listen and take notice of Denethor's rantings with the respect due to the Steward of Gondor, but today he was just too weary. He drew a deep breath which unfortunately, Denethor interpreted as a sign of petulance, and as the Steward lost control, the battle-weary Ranger found himself on the floor, the back of his father's hand striking him across the face with such force that for a moment, Faramir thought his neck had snapped.
"Father!" Boromir ran to his brother's side. Faramir was dazed, and yet at the same time, the blow brought him back to full awareness. Boromir tried to help him to his feet, but Faramir shrugged him angrily aside, and he faced his father, his eyes blazing with defiance. Denethor looked momentarily startled by the rapid change in his normally placid son – he hadn't intended to strike him, but he would have expected the reaction to be one of contrition. Faramir was rarely insubordinate, and more often than not, over-anxious to please, Denethor reflected. He had a stubborn streak and occasionally a flash of temper, but his son was not a man given to bursts of anger – unlike himself he realised with some sense of shame.
Faramir was standing before him now, his large blue-grey eyes clear and penetrating, his expression not one of despair, but of determination. Denethor found it unsettling.
"Leave", he said. "I no longer require your presence".
Faramir bowed slightly. "As you wish Father", he said, "But you and I will talk, and soon – for no longer will I waste my time wondering about answers to questions I have been loathe to ask".
He turned and walked away, his head held high, and with no visible sign of either shock or anger.
Boromir was proud of him.
"You expect too much of him", he said to his father. "He does his duty well, but miracles he hasn't mastered yet".
Denethor just scowled. Another time he would have taken issue with his eldest, but Faramir's words had troubled him. More than troubled. In truth he was shaken, for he knew that Faramir was going to confront him and would demand answers that the Steward would prefer not to give.
*********************
He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling as though in a trance, eyes unblinking. Boromir sat beside him. He placed his hand gently against his brother's bruised cheek, and thought to himself that not all the Orcs of Mordor could hurt him more.
"What did you mean? What questions?"
Faramir's face remained impassive, his gaze still focused on the high, ornate ceiling.
"What do you think?"
"He drives you hard because he cares – he wants you to remain safe", but Boromir knew that his response was lame.
Faramir looked at him.
"Who do you try to protect brother – me or him? All my life I have been treated as second best – where you received words of encouragement or praise, I received silence. Your failures met with consolation, ,mine with accusation. He will tell me why, or........". His voice faltered.
"Or?" prompted Boromir.
"Or I will leave Minas Tirith", said Faramir.
Boromir's look was of disbelief. "You could never do that! You are nothing if not loyal to Gondor".
"I said not that I would leave Gondor", his brother replied. "I can serve Gondor with the Rangers in the north, or I can go to Dol Amroth – or, yes, maybe I will indeed seize the chance to see the Misty Mountains, or Mirkwood, seek Imladris, or even further".
"Roaming alone through the wild? said Boromir. "Not advisable for any man, least of all the son of the Steward of Gondor".
"Well, mayhap that will not be a concern." Faramir said quietly, but Boromir was too busy contemplating the prospect of life without his beloved little brother to question the meaning of his words.
*******************
Denethor didn't want to reflect on the past. Damn Faramir! The future was all that mattered – the future of Gondor. He always tried not to think of Finduilas, for her loss still pained him grievously. He had loved her like no other, but he knew that as a husband, he was a failure. He was not a man capable of the sensitivies a woman expected and needed, and it was no surprise to him that his wife had left him and returned to her home in Dol Amroth, leaving him alone in his walled city – his only true love being the accusation she had thrown at him. He hadn't known when, or if, she would return, and he missed her, and their four year old son, but at first his main feeling was one of anger and resentment. She was his wife and her place was at his side. She had no right to place her own desires before his. She knew what to expect when she married him – his duty was first and foremost to Gondor, no matter how much she, or he, would wish it to be different. Maybe she should have remained in Dol Amroth and married a man whose responsibilities were less and did not control his every waking moment.
Denethor closed his eyes as he remembered Finduilas – her body, her face, her sweet ethereal quality. There was no other like her – no other – but the memory of Rowanna pervaded his mind. Finduilas' maid was beautiful, but to Denethor her beauty lay in her likness to his absent wife. They could have been sisters, and Finduilas thought of her as such, despite the differences in their class. Rowanna even had the same elven blood in her veins, the blood that Denethor blamed for his wife's feyness and fragility. Why had the fates conspired to leave her in Minas Tirith, victim of a fever which prevented her from travelling with his wife? The nights he took Rowanna had weighed heavily in his thoughts, even though at the time, he had thought only of Finduilas, imagining that it was her body beneath him, but he was an honourable man, and was consumed by guilt.
And now Faramir would come, demanding answers, wanting to know why his presence had always provoked such animosity, why he felt unloved and unwanted, for though it had never been said, Denethor knew that was what he believed – and with good reason the Steward recognised, for he knew that it had always been Faramir on whom he vented his frustrations, his guilt, and his anger.
Denethor remembered his birth as though it was yesterday – a pathetic little scrap of humanity who Finduilas had adored from the moment she set eyes on him. He was small and helpless but even then had huge blue eyes which seemed to bore into Denethor's very soul. And so it continued through his childhood, and beyond. Many times did the Steward sense a presence, and he would find Faramir watching him, and although no words would pass between them, Denethor remained haunted by the blue eyes that spoke volumes. When it became apparent that the child was gifted with foresight, Denethor's conscience told him that he knew the truth.
"Come!" he responded to the knock on the door, and Faramir entered. The young Ranger felt a lot less confident than he had previously, but he faced Denethor with his head high, and a determined expression.
The bruise on Faramir's face was now a mass of purple and black, and as the Steward looked at it, confused emotions raged within him. Part of him wanted to strike his son again, to beat the defiance out of him, but he knew that such brutality would achieve nothing, less it were to lose him both of his children, for Boromir had ever been the friend and protector of his young brother. It was yet another source of enmity, for Denethor knew that Boromir loved Faramir above all others.
"We need to talk, you and I", said Faramir.
"Indeed", agreed Denethor, "and not least of all about the situation at Par Bellas, which must be retaken".
Faramir nodded. "And it shall be – but tell me Father, had Boromir been in command, would your reaction have been the same? My brother is a great soldier, but even he could not have held back an enemy that outnumbered us fourfold. Had we stayed to fight, we would have been slaughtered, and Gondor would have been even further weakened".
Denethor was silent for a moment. He had no desire to inflame this situation, and in his heart, he knew Faramir spoke the truth.
"Boromir tells me I expect too much of you", he said at last. "Do you agree with him?"
"My Lord is at liberty to expect the best I can offer", Faramir replied.
"Then maybe I do you an injustice", said the Steward. "Maybe my belief that your head is too full of lore and music to fulfil your duties in the defence of this realm to the best of your ability, is unfounded.
"Is that then your reasons Father?" Denethor's gaze was drawn to the eyes that had tormented him for 25 years – the eyes of a child, the eyes of a youth, the eyes of a man, but worst of all, the eyes of his mother. He said nothing as Faramir continued.
"You know I do not care for war and battle. I take no pleasure in slaying, whether it be human or orc. I care not for life as a soldier. But should I have a son who wishes to follow that path, I would still love and support him, for he would still be my son, and I would not allow differences in our character to come between us".
Denethor nodded. He had to be careful, for despite his natural inclination to criticise and deride his youngest, he wanted this conversation to be as short as possible, and a tactical withdrawal would be preferable to a major conflict, where there would be no victor.
"I accept what you say", he said. "In future, I will remember it".
Faramir's look was of shock, but not because his father had appeared to capitulate. The young man was too astute not to realise that Denethor was deliberately avoiding the issue.
He closed his eyes momentarily, and took a deep breath.
"And what then, were your reasons when I was a child?"
Denethor waved him away. "This is not the time – there are more pressing matters to be dealt with."
"This is the time for me!" Faramir's heart was pounding, and his throat felt dry and constricted, but he was not going to lose the momentum and back down now.
"I love my brother", he continued, "but for as long as I can remember, it has been he who has received your approval and your affection. As a small child I can remember seeing you laugh with him, hold him, share stories with him..."
His voice faltered. "Please no", he thought, "Don't let me weaken now", and he steeled himself as he continued. "What did I do as a child that made you deny me any love?"
Denethor looked at Faramir, and the expression on his face was almost fit to break his heart. Tears were spilling silently from those same eyes that had accused him so often, but such was his guilt and fear, that he was unable to offer any comfort, for he knew not what to say.
"I have to ask you something, and I beg you to forgive me", said Faramir, who despite his emotions, was not going to retreat now. "And I ask my mother's forgiveness also", he added.softly, and he looked squarely at Denethor, as he asked, "Are you my father?"
So many thoughts raced through Denethor's mind – there was anger that Faramir should consider his mother's infidelity, but there was compassion also, for he could not treat lightly the boy's distress, and nor could he deny that he himself was the cause of it.
Faramir's head was lowered, but as Denethor moved towards him, he looked up, and the Steward noticed him flinch. "Has it come to this?" he asked himself sadly.
He placed his hand gently beneath Faramir's chin. "Look at me", he said firmly. His tone was gentle, but Faramir kept his head down, for he felt shame at letting his father see him weep like a child.
"Faramir", said Denethor, as with his thumb he wiped tears away from his son's face. This caring, but unexpected gesture, was too much for Faramir, and his shoulders convulsed as he gave way to sobs that tore at Denethor's heart.
"Listen to me", he said. "I make no excuses for the way in which I have treated you, for there are none – but I will tell you no lie."
Faramir looked up then, red-rimmed eyes full of fearful anticipation.
"You are my son", Denethor continued, "Though I know not if that will comfort you".
Faramir's relief was plain, and as he knelt in front of his father, he took his hand and kissed the ring upon it, and the Steward could not help but wonder why he deserved this demonstration of loyalty and affection. He stroked his son's hair. "Go now", he said, "Go and rest, for there is much to be done, and you will need your wits about you. I would not wish to lose you in battle."
When Faramir had left the room, Denethor virtually collapsed into his chair. It was done, and the secret remained. He had not been the best father to Faramir, and even now, he didn't know if he could change, but he knew he loved him, for had he not, he would have unburdened himself, and broke the boy's heart in the process.
Although Faramir had not wanted to hear that Denethor was not his father, he was probably prepared for it, but Denethor knew that the gentle and sensitive young man who had knelt before him in gratitude at being confirmed as the son of the Steward, would have been unable to cope with the truth. Indeed, it was something Denethor would take to his grave.
When Finduilas was in Dol Amroth, Denethor had been plagued with jealousy and suspicion. He knew the accursed Thorongil was there also and that he and his wife shared the kind of friendship and companionship that Denethor was unable to offer.. Soon he was convinced that Finduilas had betrayed him, and so it was that he justified taking a mistress in Rowanna.
"I can at least do this much for him," thought Denethor. "I will protect him from the truth" and he vowed then that Faramir would never learn that his mother had died in childbirth, and that her motherless infant had been immediately adopted by the beautiful and forgiving Finduilas.
Sins of the Father – 2.
Boromir had witnessed his father's anger on many occasions, but this was something more. The stewards's face was distorted into a mask of malevolent rage, and also – though it distressed him to believe it – sheer hatred. The object of Denethor's anger was, as usual, his youngest son. Faramir had just returned to Minas Tirith with the news that orcs had taken control of Par Bellas, a hill on the outskirts of Ithilien, which had been a crucial vantage point for the Rangers.
Boromir's fist clenched in frustration. His brother was a fine soldier and a good leader – all the more so because he'd had to work at it, for it didn't come naturally to him. He would have preferred to spend his days with his nose in a book, learning about the various races of Middle Earth, of their culture, their languages, and their history. He was a quiet and peaceful soul, but he recognised that the time in which they lived allowed little opportunity for self-indulgence.
Faramir's head ached. He hadn't slept for two days, and his body bore swollen purple and blue contusions, the legacy of the long battle with the hordes of Mordor orcs who launched their attack on the Ithilien outpost with numbers that vastly outweighed those of the Rangers. He could still hear his father's voice, but he no longer knew what he was saying. His mind was fixed on the men he had lost and their families who were still waiting for news. He'd heard it all before anyway, more times than he cared to remember. Usually he would listen and take notice of Denethor's rantings with the respect due to the Steward of Gondor, but today he was just too weary. He drew a deep breath which unfortunately, Denethor interpreted as a sign of petulance, and as the Steward lost control, the battle-weary Ranger found himself on the floor, the back of his father's hand striking him across the face with such force that for a moment, Faramir thought his neck had snapped.
"Father!" Boromir ran to his brother's side. Faramir was dazed, and yet at the same time, the blow brought him back to full awareness. Boromir tried to help him to his feet, but Faramir shrugged him angrily aside, and he faced his father, his eyes blazing with defiance. Denethor looked momentarily startled by the rapid change in his normally placid son – he hadn't intended to strike him, but he would have expected the reaction to be one of contrition. Faramir was rarely insubordinate, and more often than not, over-anxious to please, Denethor reflected. He had a stubborn streak and occasionally a flash of temper, but his son was not a man given to bursts of anger – unlike himself he realised with some sense of shame.
Faramir was standing before him now, his large blue-grey eyes clear and penetrating, his expression not one of despair, but of determination. Denethor found it unsettling.
"Leave", he said. "I no longer require your presence".
Faramir bowed slightly. "As you wish Father", he said, "But you and I will talk, and soon – for no longer will I waste my time wondering about answers to questions I have been loathe to ask".
He turned and walked away, his head held high, and with no visible sign of either shock or anger.
Boromir was proud of him.
"You expect too much of him", he said to his father. "He does his duty well, but miracles he hasn't mastered yet".
Denethor just scowled. Another time he would have taken issue with his eldest, but Faramir's words had troubled him. More than troubled. In truth he was shaken, for he knew that Faramir was going to confront him and would demand answers that the Steward would prefer not to give.
*********************
He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling as though in a trance, eyes unblinking. Boromir sat beside him. He placed his hand gently against his brother's bruised cheek, and thought to himself that not all the Orcs of Mordor could hurt him more.
"What did you mean? What questions?"
Faramir's face remained impassive, his gaze still focused on the high, ornate ceiling.
"What do you think?"
"He drives you hard because he cares – he wants you to remain safe", but Boromir knew that his response was lame.
Faramir looked at him.
"Who do you try to protect brother – me or him? All my life I have been treated as second best – where you received words of encouragement or praise, I received silence. Your failures met with consolation, ,mine with accusation. He will tell me why, or........". His voice faltered.
"Or?" prompted Boromir.
"Or I will leave Minas Tirith", said Faramir.
Boromir's look was of disbelief. "You could never do that! You are nothing if not loyal to Gondor".
"I said not that I would leave Gondor", his brother replied. "I can serve Gondor with the Rangers in the north, or I can go to Dol Amroth – or, yes, maybe I will indeed seize the chance to see the Misty Mountains, or Mirkwood, seek Imladris, or even further".
"Roaming alone through the wild? said Boromir. "Not advisable for any man, least of all the son of the Steward of Gondor".
"Well, mayhap that will not be a concern." Faramir said quietly, but Boromir was too busy contemplating the prospect of life without his beloved little brother to question the meaning of his words.
*******************
Denethor didn't want to reflect on the past. Damn Faramir! The future was all that mattered – the future of Gondor. He always tried not to think of Finduilas, for her loss still pained him grievously. He had loved her like no other, but he knew that as a husband, he was a failure. He was not a man capable of the sensitivies a woman expected and needed, and it was no surprise to him that his wife had left him and returned to her home in Dol Amroth, leaving him alone in his walled city – his only true love being the accusation she had thrown at him. He hadn't known when, or if, she would return, and he missed her, and their four year old son, but at first his main feeling was one of anger and resentment. She was his wife and her place was at his side. She had no right to place her own desires before his. She knew what to expect when she married him – his duty was first and foremost to Gondor, no matter how much she, or he, would wish it to be different. Maybe she should have remained in Dol Amroth and married a man whose responsibilities were less and did not control his every waking moment.
Denethor closed his eyes as he remembered Finduilas – her body, her face, her sweet ethereal quality. There was no other like her – no other – but the memory of Rowanna pervaded his mind. Finduilas' maid was beautiful, but to Denethor her beauty lay in her likness to his absent wife. They could have been sisters, and Finduilas thought of her as such, despite the differences in their class. Rowanna even had the same elven blood in her veins, the blood that Denethor blamed for his wife's feyness and fragility. Why had the fates conspired to leave her in Minas Tirith, victim of a fever which prevented her from travelling with his wife? The nights he took Rowanna had weighed heavily in his thoughts, even though at the time, he had thought only of Finduilas, imagining that it was her body beneath him, but he was an honourable man, and was consumed by guilt.
And now Faramir would come, demanding answers, wanting to know why his presence had always provoked such animosity, why he felt unloved and unwanted, for though it had never been said, Denethor knew that was what he believed – and with good reason the Steward recognised, for he knew that it had always been Faramir on whom he vented his frustrations, his guilt, and his anger.
Denethor remembered his birth as though it was yesterday – a pathetic little scrap of humanity who Finduilas had adored from the moment she set eyes on him. He was small and helpless but even then had huge blue eyes which seemed to bore into Denethor's very soul. And so it continued through his childhood, and beyond. Many times did the Steward sense a presence, and he would find Faramir watching him, and although no words would pass between them, Denethor remained haunted by the blue eyes that spoke volumes. When it became apparent that the child was gifted with foresight, Denethor's conscience told him that he knew the truth.
"Come!" he responded to the knock on the door, and Faramir entered. The young Ranger felt a lot less confident than he had previously, but he faced Denethor with his head high, and a determined expression.
The bruise on Faramir's face was now a mass of purple and black, and as the Steward looked at it, confused emotions raged within him. Part of him wanted to strike his son again, to beat the defiance out of him, but he knew that such brutality would achieve nothing, less it were to lose him both of his children, for Boromir had ever been the friend and protector of his young brother. It was yet another source of enmity, for Denethor knew that Boromir loved Faramir above all others.
"We need to talk, you and I", said Faramir.
"Indeed", agreed Denethor, "and not least of all about the situation at Par Bellas, which must be retaken".
Faramir nodded. "And it shall be – but tell me Father, had Boromir been in command, would your reaction have been the same? My brother is a great soldier, but even he could not have held back an enemy that outnumbered us fourfold. Had we stayed to fight, we would have been slaughtered, and Gondor would have been even further weakened".
Denethor was silent for a moment. He had no desire to inflame this situation, and in his heart, he knew Faramir spoke the truth.
"Boromir tells me I expect too much of you", he said at last. "Do you agree with him?"
"My Lord is at liberty to expect the best I can offer", Faramir replied.
"Then maybe I do you an injustice", said the Steward. "Maybe my belief that your head is too full of lore and music to fulfil your duties in the defence of this realm to the best of your ability, is unfounded.
"Is that then your reasons Father?" Denethor's gaze was drawn to the eyes that had tormented him for 25 years – the eyes of a child, the eyes of a youth, the eyes of a man, but worst of all, the eyes of his mother. He said nothing as Faramir continued.
"You know I do not care for war and battle. I take no pleasure in slaying, whether it be human or orc. I care not for life as a soldier. But should I have a son who wishes to follow that path, I would still love and support him, for he would still be my son, and I would not allow differences in our character to come between us".
Denethor nodded. He had to be careful, for despite his natural inclination to criticise and deride his youngest, he wanted this conversation to be as short as possible, and a tactical withdrawal would be preferable to a major conflict, where there would be no victor.
"I accept what you say", he said. "In future, I will remember it".
Faramir's look was of shock, but not because his father had appeared to capitulate. The young man was too astute not to realise that Denethor was deliberately avoiding the issue.
He closed his eyes momentarily, and took a deep breath.
"And what then, were your reasons when I was a child?"
Denethor waved him away. "This is not the time – there are more pressing matters to be dealt with."
"This is the time for me!" Faramir's heart was pounding, and his throat felt dry and constricted, but he was not going to lose the momentum and back down now.
"I love my brother", he continued, "but for as long as I can remember, it has been he who has received your approval and your affection. As a small child I can remember seeing you laugh with him, hold him, share stories with him..."
His voice faltered. "Please no", he thought, "Don't let me weaken now", and he steeled himself as he continued. "What did I do as a child that made you deny me any love?"
Denethor looked at Faramir, and the expression on his face was almost fit to break his heart. Tears were spilling silently from those same eyes that had accused him so often, but such was his guilt and fear, that he was unable to offer any comfort, for he knew not what to say.
"I have to ask you something, and I beg you to forgive me", said Faramir, who despite his emotions, was not going to retreat now. "And I ask my mother's forgiveness also", he added.softly, and he looked squarely at Denethor, as he asked, "Are you my father?"
So many thoughts raced through Denethor's mind – there was anger that Faramir should consider his mother's infidelity, but there was compassion also, for he could not treat lightly the boy's distress, and nor could he deny that he himself was the cause of it.
Faramir's head was lowered, but as Denethor moved towards him, he looked up, and the Steward noticed him flinch. "Has it come to this?" he asked himself sadly.
He placed his hand gently beneath Faramir's chin. "Look at me", he said firmly. His tone was gentle, but Faramir kept his head down, for he felt shame at letting his father see him weep like a child.
"Faramir", said Denethor, as with his thumb he wiped tears away from his son's face. This caring, but unexpected gesture, was too much for Faramir, and his shoulders convulsed as he gave way to sobs that tore at Denethor's heart.
"Listen to me", he said. "I make no excuses for the way in which I have treated you, for there are none – but I will tell you no lie."
Faramir looked up then, red-rimmed eyes full of fearful anticipation.
"You are my son", Denethor continued, "Though I know not if that will comfort you".
Faramir's relief was plain, and as he knelt in front of his father, he took his hand and kissed the ring upon it, and the Steward could not help but wonder why he deserved this demonstration of loyalty and affection. He stroked his son's hair. "Go now", he said, "Go and rest, for there is much to be done, and you will need your wits about you. I would not wish to lose you in battle."
When Faramir had left the room, Denethor virtually collapsed into his chair. It was done, and the secret remained. He had not been the best father to Faramir, and even now, he didn't know if he could change, but he knew he loved him, for had he not, he would have unburdened himself, and broke the boy's heart in the process.
Although Faramir had not wanted to hear that Denethor was not his father, he was probably prepared for it, but Denethor knew that the gentle and sensitive young man who had knelt before him in gratitude at being confirmed as the son of the Steward, would have been unable to cope with the truth. Indeed, it was something Denethor would take to his grave.
When Finduilas was in Dol Amroth, Denethor had been plagued with jealousy and suspicion. He knew the accursed Thorongil was there also and that he and his wife shared the kind of friendship and companionship that Denethor was unable to offer.. Soon he was convinced that Finduilas had betrayed him, and so it was that he justified taking a mistress in Rowanna.
"I can at least do this much for him," thought Denethor. "I will protect him from the truth" and he vowed then that Faramir would never learn that his mother had died in childbirth, and that her motherless infant had been immediately adopted by the beautiful and forgiving Finduilas.