Apologia

Denethor's eyes fluttered in a light sleep. He had sat beside his son for some hours now, watching his own uneasy sleep. His hand lay on his sons, gently, yet with a determination not seen by anyone else. The Steward had ordered all the guards to stay outside the chamber, and for the healer to remain close at hand. He wanted to be alone with his son. Candlelight danced about them in a breeze that ran chill through the room. Night was falling, and it was getting cold.

Denethor woke with a start, unsure of his bearings. But he slowly realised where he was, and wished he had never stirred from his slumber. He saw his son lying on the bed in front of him, and he wept. He squeezed his son's hand, but felt no response in return. He heard small noises escape his son's mouth, but they were no more than muffled cries of pain. Denethor stood from his chair and turned from the body that lay dying. He rubbed his brow awkwardly, not wanting to look at yet another loved one dying. His thoughts lingered back to his father, who had died of old age and yet still he had not told him all he had wanted. He thought of Boromir, in whose death imagination was all he had, which only worsened the blow. Oft had he woken in the night having seen his son, overrun by orcs, dying a slow and lonely death. But the death that hurt him most, the death all too similar to this, his wife. He had been in the room as her life slowly slipped away from him. He knew that she had not said all she wanted to. She had told him to look after their sons, to look after Boromir…then she told him she loved him, and died. He turned back to his dying son.

Slowly, Denethor sat on the edge of the bed. A shaking hand brushed against Faramir's brow. Old ears could hear his shallow breathing and silenced cries, and he could not bear to keep listening. Yet he stayed, hand on his son's hand, tears falling silently. He looked at Faramir, his face still contorting in throes of agony. "My son…my beautiful son," Denethor wept, wept because he knew no one else was in the room, wept because he knew the last person he loved was to die, wept as though he would never have another opportunity to do so. "Why? Why must you leave me too?" He wiped his eyes with a tired hand, and paused slightly. "I have not given you reason to stay have I? My poor, poor boy…why should you stay? Why should you? You should not stay for me, my son, no…no…I do not deserve your life. You will leave me, as has everyone else…you will leave me, and go to them. You will see them again; while I must linger here for death to take me too…linger here with nothing left as my own but the empty shell of my son. But they will take it…and ruin my beautiful boy…as they will ruin us all…" Denethor squeezed Faramir's ailing hand, leaned forward and kiss his brow. His other hand caressed his son's face, a face unnoticed until now. Denethor's weeping stopped, although tears still plummeted. "I'm sorry Faramir," he said slowly, calm now, "I have been blind. I am sorry."

Denethor sat up on the edge of the bed. He sighed. He could hear screams and all other sounds of war from the open window. He looked around the room. It seemed so peaceful. He looked at the candles that flickered on the table beside him. Dancing flames, dancing to the sounds of war. The Southron chants rang clear through the night as the flames kept on dancing. Denethor stared at the candle, the chants running in his mind. Dancing flames in Denethor's eyes…dancing flames for the dying. A frail hand reached out to the flames, it felt nothing. Denethor looked on his son again and smiled. He reached over to place a lingering kiss on his brow and whispered to him "We shall be free my son…and we shall all be together again." Denethor stood, straight and proud, his face set with newfound determination. "Guards!" he shouted, and two came into the room. They looked with inquisitive eyes at the Steward, who stood tall again, yet whose tears still lay upon his cheeks. He looked back at them, smiling. "Open the gates to Rath Dínen."

The End