He stood hesitantly at the entrance to the House of Stewards, quite unsure if he should proceed.
Long ago, he decided to come there only once a year, on her birthday. He could not bear to visit the place on the day of her death, as this would only bring memories he would rather keep somewhere away, tucked under the thick cover of everyday duties and cares. He did not want to remember how she died; the memories of her happier day were a lot better.
Gradually, he was a little surprised that the pain was wearing away, not ripping his heart in two any more. There were regrets, for certain. He smiled ruefully at that. There were always regrets, but there was also a chance that you could put things to rights, unless the one who you believed wronged was beyond your reach… forever.
Had Finduilas not died, he would have certainly proceeded to make her wait long hours until he came back from her office, and declined her tentative offers to go for a ride together when there was a moment to spare (he was too exhausted, so he preferred staying in with a book of lore), and he knew she longed for open spaces rather than the constant confinement of the City… though she never mentioned it, not once, and he chose not to notice, for it was more convenient that way.
He remembered how immensely relieved he was when healers assured him that his wife's illness and death had naught to do with her longing for the sea. He could not have borne it at the time.
Sighing, he entered.
Finduilas's resting place was easily recognisable by the beautiful sculpture, a likeness of a woman lying on the stone slab that had been placed over her. He remembered his search for the piece of marble that would suit his demand: pure white, smooth and even-coloured, not cloudy, so that nothing could mar the beauty he wanted to keep for eternity.
The stone was found eventually, and he had the best sculptor make the likeness of his wife, providing him with all her portraits and especially pointing out that he wanted her to look as real as possible…he wondered at this whim. What did it matter, after all… She was not returning from the journey she had started on.
Denethor stood before the sculpture and touched his hand to the cold face. Cold… Yes, this stone lady looked like his wife with every single line of her proud fair face, of her stilled hair curling slightly over the brow… and still it was not she.
He traced the line of her mouth. Yes, the trick lied there. The lips he remembered and loved had been ever curled in a soft smile, a little bit mischievous and teasing. This mouth was hard and cold, as was the still figure before him. No artist could ever hope to show her as she really was…
"Fin…" he said softly, seating himself on the slab beside the figure. "How you would rage if you could see this… "
The thought made him smile.
"Perhaps you can," he went on. "I prefer to believe in the afterlife, my dear. Will it not be amusing to watch our boys together when I come and join you there?"
The thought of the children saddened him. Who could promise him that his own end would come before theirs?
"It is so wrong, Fin," he said, stroking the cold hands folded on her breast. "So wrong, to have to bury your children, and yet this is what happens here each day. I…I do fear for them. I cannot tell you how I fear… I cannot tell anyone but you."
His heart constricted painfully as he thought of Boromir. His eldest was not coming back for a long while, and Denethor hoped with all his heart that his return would be safe. It was the first time his son was in real danger, in danger of a battle, not a short fight, and oh, what would he not give not to have to send him into peril!
That he could not afford. An eighteen-year-old could fight; an eighteen-year-old who was the Steward's son had to fight, and there was nothing one could do about it.
Faramir would be leaving soon, too. Denethor sighed and rubbed his brow tiredly. At least Boromir was doing what he excelled at and loved. His younger brother was good at those things too, but his heart was elsewhere most of the time… much like Denethor's had been under the same circumstances.
Whatever people might say (and they said it displeased the Steward to see his other son so ill-suited for battle), he pitied the boy. Faramir had been born in the wrong times. How great a scholar he would make were he allowed to follow his inclinations! But that was not to happen. Too much, and too many, depended on them, the father and the sons. Denethor smiled softly. He could already imagine it all, all three of them appointed for different feelings from their people: himself for fear and reverence and a little bashing – no ruler could do without those; Boromir for pride and admiration, and their youngest for quiet love, the kind you give to your nearest ones. This sort of rule was bound to succeed.
"See, Fin, I truly am a scheming sort," he smiled, looking unseeingly past the still white figure and almost seeing her lovely face, radiating warmth and affection, melting through the deadly chill of the place…
He was startled to hear a sneeze rip through the night silence of the house of the dead.
Whirling around, he froze in astonishment to see his son standing some feet away, clad only in a thin white shirt, and that looked soaked with rain that never stopped.
Faramir seemed to be blue with the cold, shivering in the current of cold air from the entrance.
"Faramir!" Denethor cried, pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around the shaking frame of the boy. "Are you mad, child? Goodness, you are soaked through! Is there any brain at all in that head of yours? Or should I strap you to your bed so that you do not catch your death in addition to the cold?"
The boy did not respond, though his shaking began to still. Denethor put a hand around his shoulders, leading him gently towards the exit.
When Faramir was settled in his bed, with the fire built up and the flames dancing merrily, warming the big chamber, and scolded properly by a healer called in, a guard who happened to come and check what the commotion was, and his father (not once), Denethor allowed himself a relieved sigh as he sank into a chair at the bedside.
"I wonder if you are really your age, Faramir," he said. "Even a five-year-old would not be that foolish. Indeed, when you were five, you seemed much more reasonable to me!"
The boy's eyes looked at him unhappily, and Denethor forced his annoyance away. After all, the child had been ill, still was, so he reached his hand to Faramir's cheek.
He was surprised to see that the boy's head jerked away from the touch.
Denethor almost gritted his teeth in frustration. Why was it that he never knew how to approach this son of his? Earlier in the evening, all had seemed so peaceful, so…right!
"What is it, Faramir?" he asked in his softest tones.
"Nothing," the boy said hoarsely.
"I can see something is wrong, child," Denethor said, catching his chin and forcing him to look at himself. "You can tell me. I promise I shall do my best not to be angry."
He smiled, trying to reassure Faramir, but the boy remained grave and alert. Slowly, he took Denethor's hand and pushed it away.
"Please leave," he said. "I want to be alone."
"Oh, do you?" Denethor felt his blood slowly starting to boil again. "So that you could get out into the rain and cold again? Much as it is not fitting that the Ruling Steward of Gondor should baby-sit his almost grown son, I am fully prepared to break the protocol like that to keep you from an absolutely foolish death! I feel I cannot trust healers with the task. I do not…"
"I know that it was my fault," Faramir stated flatly, staring at the ceiling.
Denethor stopped mid-sentence.
"What was? Did you do something that I do not know? I rather thought you were past smashing windows," he said wryly.
"Mother. I know she died because of me."
Denethor stared at him as if he had the Dark Lord himself emerge before his eyes.
"What?" he gasped. "What the…"
"I heard someone talking, in here, when they thought I was feverish and would not hear them. They said she never recovered after I was born. That is how I know."
"…Still not awake? Poor boy."
"Yes, this is likely to keep him down longer that one would have thought. Has the Lord Denethor been in here to see him?"
"He has not today. He does not come very often."
"Small wonder. They say he cannot stand the boy, because of his wife."
"His wife?"
"The late Lady Finduilas never recovered from the birth, she was very weak and eventually died. So they say. Now, the Steward loved her very much indeed, and he had been blaming her death on the boy ever since. You do see that he prefers his eldest to Faramir?"
"Yes, I heard that."
"That is because the boy took his mother's life, and he does not like to be reminded of that."
TBC
The sculpture like the one I attempted to describe really exists, and I had it before my eyes the whole time as I was writing. It is on the sarcophagus of a Polish Queen Hedwig (a saint as well) who died at a very young age giving birth to her child. She married a man fit to be her Granddad for the benefit of her country and did heaps of good in her very short life. Unfortunately, she died, as well as her newborn daughter, and the marble figure of her is by far the loveliest thing I have seen in my life. If any of my readers is planning to visit the city of Krakow (which is also the most adorable place for me), go and see it in the Wawel Royal Castle, in the church.
To my dear reviewers:
Denethor's Angel: I do realise that you are a fan of good old Steward! Was glad to give you a moment of pleasure.
Lindahoyland: thank you so much! Yes, I do believe that at some point there were at least attempts at understanding between the two of them.
Nautika: I am planning a three-shot, but my readers have already convinced me to give extra chapter to other stories, so…
Nonce: well, he does seem passive…how is this chapter?
Sevilodorf: you have hit the point here. I do believe that their problem was miscommunication, which got worse and worse over the years.
Elenhin: oh, you put it all so nicely that I have little to add! The blue mantle is important in the story and will appear again.
Conuiren: you know, I can never see Denethor as a monster, first time I read about him I just felt immensely sorry for the poor man. Tolkien in fact says he and Faramir were quite alike! And I loved you comment about sniffing. I simply hate the sound!
Ashley: glad you found something to your taste. I have one more story about these two, it is here, called Waiting
Steelelf: nice to hear from you again! BTW, if you still want to get in touch, email me. I cannot reach you!
Chibi-kaz: I prefer that idea myself. I think that if you know that someone you love loves you too, and still cannot reach the person, it is a lot more frustrating than the absence of the feeling.