The Lord and the Lady

by Stargazer Nataku

Series that chronicles the life of Denethor and Finduilas. Now COMPLETE!

6. All Good Things

All Good Things

By

Stargazer Nataku

Denethor closed and folded the last letter confirming the invitation to the Great Council that was to be held in Minas Tirith in the spring. Lords from all parts of Gondor were coming, as they did every seven years, to discuss matters both large and small concerning their lands and the greater good of all Gondor. Usually, Denethor looked forward to these meetings and always had; this year, however, it was different. The winter had been long and made difficult by many things. The snows had been worse than usual, creating problems throughout the country; the Council itself needed to be planned for, creating more work to fall on his shoulders; and worst of all, Faramir had caught a cold that had settled in his lungs and his mother, in nursing him, had become sicker than her son. For over a week, Denethor had watched and worried, lest he lose either his wife or son, but in the end both passed through the danger. Though they were still weak, the dark worried nights he had thought them dying now seemed to fade into memory as he concentrated on remaining cheerful for the sake of the invalids.

Denethor felt a relieved smile appear on his face as finished putting his papers away, checking the light outdoors as he did so. It was late afternoon and the pale winter sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting pale washed out light over the city. Finduilas would be waiting for him to come, and so he left his office for their private chambers.

When he arrived there, she was sitting in her chair before the fire with Faramir in her lap, and they were both wrapped in several layers of blankets. Faramir was, with all the resilience of youth, progressing rapidly back to health, chafing against the concern of adults that made him sit quietly when he wanted to run and play. Now, however, he was sitting calmly in his mother's lap as she told him one of the old stories. In contrast to her son, whose cheeks were regaining color and fullness, Finduilas remained very pale and thin. She did everything the healers advised without complaint, but visible improvement was slow in coming and even Denethor knew enough to recognize that his wife was not getting well as fast as she ought.

Still, he mused as he watched them, the happiness in her face and posture as she cuddled with their son was unmistakable, as well as the pride in her eyes as she looked to Boromir, cast on the rug before the fire, eating an apple and reading a rather thick volume that Denethor recognized as a history of Gondor that he had studied as a boy. They all heard the door click shut behind him, and Boromir jumped to his feet, book and apple forgotten, while the invalids both turned to smile at him.

He smiled back and crossed the room to sit in his own chair across from his wife's. The soft turning of the pages and the crunch of Boromir eating his apple was once again accompanied his wife's soft voice as she continued the story for Faramir, and Denethor found himself smiling as he removed his boots and stretched his feet towards the warmth of the fire.

They sat that way for several long minutes before Finduilas finished her tale. When her voice fell silent, Boromir's book closed, the apple core was flung into the fire, and he sat up on the rug. "Ready to go with Boromir, darling?" Finduilas asked Faramir. He nodded and reached his hands out for his brother. "You're too big to carry, Faramir," Finduilas began, but Boromir come to his mother and reached out for his little brother.

"No he isn't, Mother," Boromir said as he picked up his little brother, blanket and all. Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir's neck and laid his head on his older brother's shoulder. Faramir mumbled something to his brother that was muffled in Boromir's shoulder; Boromir laughed and did not respond, but smiled at his father and mother.

"Thank you, Boromir," Finduilas said, smiling back at her son as Boromir carried his little brother from the room so they could get ready for dinner. The door shut with a soft click behind them, and Denethor's gaze fell on his wife. She moved a little in her chair, and she shifted the blanket to pull it more closely around her.

"Are you cold?" Denethor asked, concerned. She turned to him with a smile.

"No, I'm not. There is no need to be concerned," she said as her smile flashed across her face. He felt himself smiling back, a smile born of relief at the familiar sparkle that appeared in her eyes that had been absent since she had fallen ill. "And before you ask," she continued, "I am feeling all right."

"Did the Warden come to see you today?" Denethor asked. It was barely noticeable, but Denethor knew his wife well enough to see the slight hesitation and apprehension that crossed her face in the instant before she spoke.

"He did," she began, but did not seem ready to offer any more information.

"And?" Denethor prompted.

"Faramir is nearly completely well," Finduilas began. "The Warden said all restrictions can be taken from him by the end of the week, if he continues as he is. As for me," Finduilas paused again. "Well, he said that he is glad to see that I have improved, although he wishes that I were improving more quickly."

"Did he think it was something to be concerned about?"

"I do not think so. From what he said, it seemed clear to me that sometimes this happens, and that I must be patient."

"You seem tired," Denethor next observed.

"I am," she answered.

"The boys did not wear you out, did they?" Denethor asked sharply.

"Oh, no!" Finduilas insisted. "They do me good. Boromir has been such a help and comfort to be, and wonderful with his brother. Oh, Denethor, they are such good boys. I am so proud of them, aren't you?" Denethor rose to his feet and came over to his wife, kneeling on the rug before her as he smiled.

"Indeed I am." She smiled, and reached out to him, allowing him to wrap her small hand in his own. He was a little concerned about how cold her skin was, but as he opened his mouth to ask she interrupted him before he could speak.

"How are the plans for the Council?" He smiled at her; she knew him too well to allow him to continue questioning her on her health. He knew that she thought he worried too much over her.

"I received the last confirmation today," Denethor told her. "Everyone is prepared to arrive the first of April."

"So soon? That's scarcely more than two weeks!"

"I know," Denethor answered. "There is much to do, I fear. I will be very busy, and for that I apologize in advance, m'lady." He kissed her hand.

"I'll have my own part to play, my love," Finduilas answered calmly.

"Not if you are not well, Finduilas."

"I am fine," she assured him again, "Please do not waste your worry on me."

"It is hardly a waste…" Denethor said, just as there was a knock on the door. "Enter," he called, and his wife's former nurse entered. Isëlmra had gotten greyer and stouter in the many years since she had come to Minas Tirith, but her eyes were still grey, kindly, and above all else devoted whenever she looked upon her Lady. "Excuse my interruption," she said with a slight curtsey, "But its time for your medicine, m'lady, dear."

"All right," Finduilas agreed, and Isëlmra came over and handed her the goblet with the medicinal brew in it. Finduilas took a deep breath and drank it all at once; pulling it away from her mouth she looked rather green and gave a bit of a cough. "It tastes terrible," she admitted to her husband. "If he were not so concerned about me I would suspect the Warden of attempting to poison me." She gave a little laugh as Isëlmra took the goblet back. "Has Faramir had his?"

"Yes, indeed, m'lady," Isëlmra said, "Although it took all my skill and Boromir's pleading to accomplish it."

"I can see why," Finduilas said with a laugh. "The poor dear."

"Its good for him," Denethor told his wife.

"I know," Finduilas answered, "But that does not make it taste any better." Denethor could not argue with this, knowing only too well how badly the healing potions sometimes tasted. "Thank you, Isëlmra."

"It is my pleasure, m'lady." She curtsied. "M'lord," she said, before going back out of the room. Denethor's eyes went back to his wife.

"Your father is coming to the council," he added, "And he is bringing your mother. I received word today."

Finduilas' eyes lit up, and Denethor found himself smiling again. "I am so glad," she said. "I had hoped they would," she added as her gaze fell to her lap, and Denethor detected a hint of sadness in her beautiful, though sunken into her too thin face, eyes.

Denethor reached out to her and took her hand. "What's the matter?" he asked. She was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire, her face pale in the shadows of the light dancing across her face. "I am just reflecting," Finduilas said, "That my father is no longer as young as he once was. He is much changed since you last saw him, twelve years ago. I fear that when he leaves the city after the Council, I shall never see him again." She squeezed Denethor's hand more tightly in her own. "Since I returned from Dol Amroth in the fall, I have not been able to ignore the fact that he is now old, and that soon, we shall be parted. Before my visit there, I could remember things as they were, and fool myself awhile that they were yet the same. But that is not true, and while deep in my heart I knew this, I cannot quite acclimate myself to the knowledge."

"I know well the pain of that loss," Denethor said, placing a hand onto her blanket-covered knee, trying to let her know that she understood that she was not alone.

"I know," she said, "And I am sorry you have borne it." Her green eyes met his with the compassion she always gave him, and they seemed to shimmer with unshed tears.

"Do not cry, m'lady," Denethor asked her gently, and before he knew it he had extended his hand to her. She abandoned her blanket and her own chair and sat herself on his lap, resting her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. Another rush of worry jolted through him over how light she was; she scarcely weighed anything at all it seemed, not that she had ever been heavy.

"Do you remember the first time you comforted me like this?" Finduilas asked softly.

"Of course I do," he answered, holding her a little more tightly. "It was in Dol Amroth, twelve years ago. Your brother was injured, and I found you in the garden, weeping."

"I still remember," Finduilas said softly, "The moon was out, there was the smell of the roses and the sea, and I thought for sure that everything was lost. Then you found me there, and when I saw you…it was as if everything I needed was standing in front of me." She laughed then, though her eyes were still sparkling with tears. "I'm afraid I was quite unladylike that evening wasn't I?"

"Indeed you were," Denethor said with a return laugh. "But I liked it."

"You would," Finduilas said, and her voice was teasing, her laughter lighter, with fewer tears and more merriment in it. She suddenly leaned over and, shifting so her arms were thrown around him, kissed him soundly. "That was not lady-like either, I fear," she commented when they separated.

"Nay," Denethor answered, somewhat breathless, "But I liked it." Finduilas laughed then, and all the traces of tears were gone from her eyes.

"I think you did," she commented mischievously, and was leaning forward to kiss him again when there was a knock on the door. "Ignore it," she whispered.

"What if it's our sons?" he asked.

"They will not come in unless we say so," she answered.

"Finduilas, maybe we ought to wait."

"Why?" she asked.

"You are not well yet."

"Well enough," she answered, pulling away a little.

"I do not wish to hurt you." The knock sounded again. "What?" Denethor called out, the irritation coming out in his voice.

"Dinner, milord," the answer came, muffled by the door. Finduilas sighed as Denethor helped her gently to her feet and then rose himself.

"In a moment!" he called out, and then, saying softly to Finduilas, "Perhaps it is better this way," he said softly to her, his hand seeking the soft, warm spot on the side of her neck, underneath her thick masses of hair. She looked up at him, her green eyes showing disappointment, the smile she kept only for him playing across her lips.

"There is always later, Denethor," she answered softly, her hands sliding up his arms and down his chest, coming at last to rest on his hips as she moved gracefully onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Denethor's own.

When she pulled away, Denethor graced her with a gentle smile, and his hand strayed from the side of her neck to her own, clasping it gently. "You are insistent, milady," he commented gently.

"I will not be denied, milord," she said. "You promised, many years ago, and I mean to hold you to your word. You are, after all, a man of honor, or so you have said."

"I could never deny you anything, Finduilas."

"I know," she answered, just as another knock came on the door.

"Mama, Papa!" they heard through the door, "I'm hungry!"

"Hush, Faramir!" came his brother's answering voice. Finduilas laughed and pulled away from her husband, putting a proper amount of distance between them.

"You had best guard your dignity, dearest," she told him slyly, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Enter!" she then called out.

Denethor sat self-consciously, giving her an exasperated smile as their sons re-entered the room just before the servants bearing their dinner.

The next days passed quickly for Denethor as the day of the arrival of the other lords drew near. The night before, he finished the last of the preparations late in the afternoon and sat for a moment, relieved he had finished, before rising and going back to their chambers.

He was surprised to find Finduilas still awake, wrapped in a blanket in her chair before the roaring fire, reading. "What are you still doing awake?" he asked, as he shed his boots and came to kiss her gently on the forehead.

"I did not wish to sleep yet," she answered, smiling at him as he regarded her critically. She was still pale, but the alertness had come back to her beautiful green eyes and the lines in her face were no longer pronounced.

"You seem as if you feel well," he commented.

"I do," she answered. "Perfectly well to help you greet our guests tomorrow."

"I am glad to hear it," Denethor answered, taking her hand in his own and squeezing it gently. "You are always such a help to me, Finduilas."

"I do my best," she answered.

'I know," he answered. "But, dearest, I fear I must ask you to promise me one thing, ere tomorrow comes."

"Anything, dearest."

"If you begin to feel ill again, please do not hesitate to step away from your duties. If…"

"Denethor," she interrupted him, "I am fine. I shall not need to shirk my duties because I am unwell."

"Promise me, Finduilas."

"I promise. If I become very ill again, I shall not hesitate."

"You ease my mind," Denethor answered her. "I thank you." Finduilas nodded and rose to her feet, stepping over to where he still stood.

"The promise is unnecessary," she informed him, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "I am well." Her eyes sparkled mischievously at him, and Denethor bent down to kiss her soundly.

"We both know the importance of keeping promises," Denethor told her when he pulled away, "As many as my lady wishes, for as long as my lady wishes."

"I shall never stop wishing," Finduilas answered, touching his face gently with her fingertips before she kissed him again. "Come to bed, dearest," she then whispered to him, her hand trailing from his cheek down to his hand.

This time, Denethor did not protest.

Dawn had not yet come when Denethor awoke the next morning. He laid still for a moment, giving himself the luxury of watching his wife sleep, her head pillowed gently on his shoulder, a slight smile playing across her face. Her dark hair was sleep tousled, and in the slight light from the dying fire and the coming dawn, it was easy to ignore how thin and pale her face still was.

So beautiful, he thought to himself, gently brushing several strands of her dark hair away from her face, as a rush of contentment washed over him. She stirred a little as he did so, shifting closer to him, a hand coming up to rest on his chest, the slight smile on her face becoming more noticeable.

He sighed mentally, feeling a strong desire to remain where he was until she awoke but knowing at the same time that there was too much to prepare to do so. Even now, he knew, last minute preparations were being made, and he had several things to take care of before he began to welcome his guests.

Carefully so as not to wake her, Denethor extricated himself from Finduilas' arms and dressed quickly in the dim light of the coming dawn. There would be, he told himself, ample time after the council to have mornings such as this. With one quick glance to his wife still curled up under the covers, Denethor left the room.

Finally, everything was ready. Denethor stood before the Steward's Chair in the Tower Hall waiting, dressed in his best, satisfied that everything would now happen as he had expected. The last piece, their guests, would soon begin to arrive, for it was nearly mid-morning, and all the guests had confirmed they would arrive in time for the feast that evening.

He looked down at the Steward's chair and ran his fingers along the cool, polished stone, and his thoughts strayed back to the last Great Council they had held, seven years earlier. His father had been Steward then, Boromir had been but two years old, and Faramir had not even been thought of. So much had changed in but a short time.

Soft footfalls crossing the stone floor interrupted his musings, and he turned to see Finduilas coming towards him across the hall. She was dressed in her best gown, her abundant hair done up into a complicated knot on the back of her head, but despite all her restrictive finery, she moved towards him with the grace of a queen. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, the regal air disappearing as she did so, and he noted then that she was wearing the necklace that had been his wedding present to her.

"You look beautiful, Finduilas," he said as she came to his side, standing a small distance before him.

"Thank you," she answered, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks. "Is everything in order?"

"Yes," he answered. "We merely await our guests."

"That is what I came to tell you," Finduilas said, and her smile widened.
"The first ships have docked at the landings of Harlond. My father and mother, as well as Lord Golasgil of Anfalas and his wife, will soon be here."

"Where are our sons?"

"Isëlmra is keeping Boromir and Faramir occupied until the feast this evening. I did not think it would be wise to have them here all day. Boromir could be patient, but if he came then Faramir would wish to as well, and he is far too young to be here."

"That is a wise choice." Denethor smiled at her, and was about to speak again when the doors to the hall swung wide and a guard entered. He bowed.

"My lord, Lord Adrahil and Lord Golasgil have arrived."

"Bring them in," Denethor ordered, turning to face the doorway, casting a quick glance out of the corner of his eye to his wife. As usual, he was amazed at the change that came across her. His joyous, lighthearted wife had assumed, with a change in posture and the way she held her head, a distant, queenly bearing that spoke of confidence and an innate ability to be a leader of men.

The sound of footsteps brought his gaze forward. Flanked by a pair of guards, Adrahil and Golasgil were walking the length of the hall towards where the Steward and his wife stood, their own wives following a pace behind. When they were a few paces before the Steward, all four stopped and bowed low. "My Lord Denethor," Golasgil said in his deep, rumbling bass voice, "It is our honor to be here."

"And my honor to welcome you to Minas Tirith," Denethor answered, using the age old formula that so many of his predecessors had followed.

"Lady Finduilas," Golasgil's wife, the Lady Aerin, said softly, "I thank you for your kind welcome."

"It is my pleasure to give it," Finduilas answered, inclining her head slightly. "It has been too long since you last came." She cast a glance from Golasgil to Aerin, and then to her own parents. "The journey here from your cities is long, and you are undoubtedly tired. You have arrived early, and there is much time to rest if you so wish it."

"I thank you, my lady," Golasgil told her, "It will be most welcome for my wife and I."

"Of course," Finduilas answered, and she cast a glance at her husband. Denethor caught the look and with a motion of his hand summoned a page.

"Please escort Lord Golasgil and his lady to their chambers."

"M'lord," the young man said with a bow to Denethor, "This way, m'lord, m'lady," he said, again making another motion as he lead the Lord and Lady of Anfalas to their chambers.

When they had departed, Finduilas' stiff demeanor melted, and all guise of sternness disappeared as a huge smile crossed her face and she stepped forward to embrace her father and mother. Denethor stood back a moment as they greeted one another, content to once again see Finduilas' face looking flushed and healthy, her eyes shining. Undoubtedly, his wife had been right; she was ill no longer.

The next days and weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity seldom matched, even in the White City. One day ran into another as alliances were reaffirmed, new trade agreements drawn up and signed, and military issues were discussed far into the night. Denethor reveled in the work, relieved from his worry about his wife and son, and led the discussions and assemblies as one born for the position.

It was often late when he returned to their quarters as it had been in the past, and he saw his wife only rarely during the daytime when official functions required both of their presences. She would always take a moment to catch his eyes and the smile she gave only to him would quickly grace her face before disappearing into the queenly mask she always wore when she was faced with official duties.

When he had time, late in the night, lying by his sleeping wife's side, he admitted to himself how trying the entire thing was, not for the work they were doing, but for the time he had to spend away from his wife and sons. He had seen Boromir and Faramir only at mealtimes when all were gathered together in the large banquet hall. Even as he spoke to the other Lords, he would watch them sitting between their mother and grandmother, laughing and cheerfully vying for the attentions of the two women on either side before finally being excused from the table to play with the other children who had come to the city with their parents. After they had left, he would enjoy watching the merry face of his wife as she spoke with her mother and the other women.

At long last, however, it was ended. Everything had been discussed and agreed upon, the alliances holding the country together were renewed and blessed, and it was time to celebrate another seven years of victory in war and success in all else. The final banquet had been in the planning stages for many months so that when the day finally came all would be prepared in a show of the splendor Gondor and her Steward could offer.

For the first time in a month, Denethor returned to their chambers in the late afternoon so he could change for the feast. The room was empty, and as he began to change he wondered where his wife was. The dress she was to wear that evening was already laid out upon the bed, ready for its wearer, and her jewelry was set neatly out on her dressing table, yet his wife was nowhere to be found.

As he finished dressing himself, the door opened and she entered. Her hair had already been dressed, by Isëlmra no doubt, and she was smiling. She came to his side and he welcomed her with a kiss. "I was beginning to wonder where you had gone," he commented as he went to sit down at the small table in their quarters to wait for her to be ready.

"I had to see to the boys," Finduilas answered him, as her nimble fingers began to undo the lacings on her dress. "It is hard to tell which is more excited." She laughed and paused a moment in the work of undoing the ties. "They are such dear boys…." Denethor, who had been pouring himself a glass of water from the decanter there on the table, looked up at her last statement, for there had been something in her voice that he had not quite recognized.

"Is something the matter, Finduilas?" he asked her, and she quickly turned to him with a smile on her face.

"No, my love," she answered, and there was a moment's pause before she spoke again, "They are just growing up so quickly, that's all." She turned and gave him a hesitant smile. "But of course I'm being foolish," she said. "I know they can't stay young forever. She finished removing her dress and carefully brought the second over her hairstyle, draping it properly around her. Denethor rose to his feet and came over, helping her draw the bodice of the dress up over her, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck as he did so. He wasn't sure what to say, so he just gently allowed his hands to run over her soft skin as he helped her with the dress.

From behind he watched as a tender smile spread across her face and she caught one of his hands in her own, so much smaller and thinner than his. "You are too good to me," she said softly, and her voice was almost tinged with a faint hint of regret.

"Nothing is too good for you," he answered as he finished rearranging the dress on her shoulders and began to tighten the laces up the back. "I would give you the world if I could."

"I don't want the world," Finduilas responded. "I'm happy in my little corner of it." She twisted in his arms, feeling he had finished with the laces, and her arms wrapped around him. Instinctively, his own arms wrapped around her and they stood for a long moment, her head pillowed on his chest, his head resting on her own. "I love you, Denethor," she said softly. "Please, never doubt that."

"Why do you ask that?" he asked, "Finduilas, I never have doubted that and I never will."

"I just want to be sure," she answered, as she pulled away slightly. "I have to finish getting ready," she said, "Or we are going to be late for our own feast."

Denethor reluctantly released her even as she returned a smile for his concerned look. She walked over to her dressing table and picked up the necklace from it, holding up the silver swan pendant so that it caught the light. "It's still as beautiful as the day you gave it to me," she said, as her nimble fingers loosened the catch and hung the pendant around her neck.

"As is the wearer," Denethor added, and she turned to him with a small smile, shaking her head gently.

"Still the flatterer, even after so many years," she said. "I am glad I will have your company at dinner this evening."

"As am I. I have been envious of you these last few weeks, enjoying yourself while I was discussing business every moment of every day. Tonight, we can enjoy ourselves together, the way it was meant to be." Denethor bent down to kiss his wife again and then offered her his arm. She took it with a restrained smile, and they left the room together, heading down the hall. "Where are the boys?" Denethor asked.

"With my mother," Finduilas answered. "She offered to finish getting them ready so I would have time to dress. They will meet us there."

"I should have known that between you and your mother everything would be taken care of," Denethor said, smiling down at her, hoping she would meet his gaze, but his wife instead stared ahead, her gaze cast slightly downward to the floor. It was so out of character for his usually vivacious wife that Denethor opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong. Yet at that precise moment, there was the sound of small feet on the stone floor and Faramir came into view, dressed in his best clothes, being chased by his brother who was also in his best.

"Mama!" Faramir cried out, racing over to hide himself protectively behind his mother, grasping her skirts in his small hands. Once safe in the shelter of his mother's shadow, he peered out from around her and teasingly stuck his tongue out at his older brother. With a grin, Boromir came over and ruffled Faramir's already mussed hair.

"I'll be able to catch you next time, little brother," he promised, casting a wink up towards his mother which made it quite clear that Boromir had allowed his little brother to get away. Finduilas laughed then, and her entire face was transformed.

"Now, now my boys," she said jovially, as she released her hold on Denethor's arm to kneel before them, "Grandmother has you dressed so nicely, and it would be a shame to get your clothes all wrinkled before I can show all the lords and ladies of Gondor what handsome sons I have." She straightened Boromir's tunic and then, turning to Faramir, brushed her hands over his unruly hair and convinced the tangled locks to lie flat. "There now." She smiled at both of them, taking one of their hands in each of hers. "There will be plenty of time to play later, after dinner, darlings. I need you to act as grown-up as possible, or it will be a long time before you can come back to a party like this. Can you do that for mother, darlings?"

Boromir straightened but did not say anything, but Denethor could see that his son had taken his mother's words to heart. He felt a rush of paternal pride as he regarded his firstborn, and with a flash of vision suddenly saw a burly young man in the place of his nine-year-old son, dressed in full armor, a bloodstained bandage tied around his upper arm. Nevertheless, the young man was smiling, pushing his dark hair aside as he sheathed his sword and reached out for someone that Denethor could not see. Then, the image faded, and Boromir was a boy again, tall for his age, his countenance serious as he reached out to take his brother's hand so they could enter the hall, mimicking the action of the vision Denethor had seen.

Turning from his sons, he extended a hand to his wife with a smile. She placed her small hand in his own with a grateful look in her green eyes an allowed him to pull her to her feet. As she straightened an almost imperceptible look of discomfort crossed over her face, a brief glimpse of pain that many would never have marked but that Denethor, attuned as he was to his wife's every move, could not fail to miss. "Are you all right?" he asked her quietly, the concern in his voice readily apparent.

"I am fine," his wife answered, though there was a slight catch in her voice that suggested lingering discomfort. "Kneeling on the stones pained my knees a little," she offered by way of an explanation. "I shall be fine in a moment."

Denethor looked at her for a long moment before he cast a glance at their sons to be sure they were not paying attention. Boromir was occupying himself with Faramir's collar, and both boys were talking to each other and completely ignoring their parents. It was only then that he turned back to his wife and, reaching out to take her hand, spoke again. "Finduilas," he said quietly, wondering how was the best way to word what he was going to say, "What is the matter?"

"I have already told you, Denethor," Finduilas answered, without meeting his gaze, "I am all right." Denethor reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, turning her head so she was forced to face him.

"Finduilas," he said, and his voice held a strange mixture of worry and sternness. However, before he could say another word, she interrupted.

"Denethor," she said, "We must go. Our guests are waiting." He released her chin, reading her unwillingness to speak on the matter further in her eyes, and took her arm, deciding to lay the matter to rest until they were in private.

When the family entered the room, all the guests rose to their feet as Denethor sought out his seat, followed closely by Finduilas and his sons. Once they were standing before their chairs behind the head table, Denethor turned and, without seating himself, raised his arms in a gesture of welcoming. "Once again, my friends, old and new, I invite you to join us at our table. I thank you for traveling all this way to be our guests, and I pray that you will find your way back again soon. Tonight, however, let us not think on tomorrow's parting. Tonight, let us celebrate work well done, and friendships renewed!" Denethor picked up his glass of wine and raised it above his head. "To Gondor!" he said, and the sentiment was echoed in a chorus of voices around the room before all took their seats and the feasting began.

Denethor was pleased at the perfection that had been attained. The food was plentiful and exceptional, spanning several courses and all the cuisines of the different regions of Gondor. There was laughter, and merry chatter, and soft strains of music from the background, creating a festive atmosphere as everyone celebrated the work that had been accomplished and the ties that had been reforged.

Through all the merriment, however, Denethor sensed an undercurrent of tension emanating from those closest to him. On his left, Finduilas laughed and smiled but there was something underneath her happiness that marred it somehow, something that he could not yet identify but which he was sure had been tied to their conversation before the feast had started. He also noted that, farther down the table, Eärwen was strangely silent, and occasionally looked to her smiling daughter with a critical eye. It was so unlike his mother-in-law that he could not help but feel a twinge of worry, though it seemed baseless to him. Finduilas surely would have told him if something was the matter. In the eleven years since their marriage, they had never kept secrets from each other.

With sudden clarity, a memory from years before pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, even as he continued to discuss the well-being of Lebennin with that region's Lord, that Finduilas would and had lied to him to keep him from worrying about her own well being. Thoughts of entering their chambers a snowy winter's night nine years previously came unbidden to his mind, hearing Isëlmra and his beloved speaking of healers and his wife's own fear. He remembered how young his wife had seemed to him then, in those months when they had awaited Boromir's birth in blissful anticipation.

Was this, then, his wife's secret? Were they to have another child, perhaps even the daughter he knew she wished for? It worried him, especially after the circumstances surrounding Faramir's birth had nearly torn her from him and, with another moment of clarity, he decided that she was right to have not told him. I have become a worrier in my old age, Denethor chided himself, and my beloved wife knows it! He nodded to the other Lord's comment, and then forced the thoughts of Finduilas away from his mind. If there was truly a need to worry, Finduilas would have never hidden it from him.

Reassured by that final thought and seeing that the feasting had ended, Denethor turned to lean close to his wife, a small smile on his face and spoke to her softly. "Perhaps we should have the dancing then, m'lady. It has been many months since I had the privilege."

She turned to him and returned his smile. "I should like that very much, m'lord," he said, reaching to him and taking his hand under the table with a soft squeeze. "It has indeed been too long." He agreed with a nod and rose to his feet again and called out for the musicians to get ready for the dancing, and called the other entertainers from where they had been waiting. Boromir and Faramir were instantly on their feet, along with many of the other children in attendance, headed towards a pair of jugglers who set themselves up in the corner.

Denethor himself offered his arm to his wife and together they took the dance floor, for it was fitting that the hosts be the first to begin the dance. The music had already started when Denethor put his arm around her waist and took her hand in his own to begin. They had started with a fairly simple, rather slow dance, and together they moved gracefully across the floor. As he always did when he was forced to take this position of first on the floor, Denethor keenly felt the eyes of all assembled on them as they gracefully turned and waltzed across the floor. "You have never liked this, my poor beloved," Finduilas said with a soft laugh, her words only for him.

"Nay," he answered, "Not when it is only you and I and all eyes are upon us." It did not, he reflected as he answered her, ever affect his wife. She danced as well as ever, moving as gracefully as a queen, everything from the lithe movements of her feet to the regal tilt of her head making her seem as though she were one of the lofty Valar themselves.

Now there were a few more couples on the floor, and Denethor relaxed slightly and allowed himself to enjoy the dance. "In fact," he added after they had waltzed for several moments in silence, "Before I had such a pleasing partner, I never enjoyed dancing at all." A slight blush only increased her beauty as the compliment registered with his wife. "If I am not the envy of every man in this hall, then I should be."

"You flatter me," she answered. "I should think that I would be the one envied, to have such a man as you to dance with. But let us not argue. I am sure there is plenty of envy for both of us, is there not?" She laughed then, executing a turn with grace and precision even as he misstepped slightly.

"Be gentle on an old man," he teased her as he adjusted to his error as best he could.

"You are hardly old," Finduilas said suddenly, and her voice had an edge to it that indicated she was no longer teasing. In surprise, he paused in his dance even as the music ended, and other laughing couples broke apart. Denethor did not release his wife.

"Finduilas?" he asked as she turned her face away from him. "Finduilas, look at me. Do not be angry…It was all in jest, nothing more." That had always before been a source of jesting between them, ever since they day they had been betrothed in the seaside gardens of Dol Amroth.

"You are not old," she said again, her voice firm. "Please, Denethor, do not say so."

"All right," he answered cautiously, "I will not, if it troubles you so. But can you tell me why such a jest bothers you now when it did not before?" Finduilas had opened her mouth to make her own reply when a hand fell upon her shoulder and she pulled away to face her elderly father, who was smiling down at her gently.

"If I may be so bold as to interrupt," Prince Adrahil said, "but I was wondering if I could have a dance with my daughter."

"Of course," Denethor answered, releasing Finduilas completely. As he turned to find his own seat, worry flooding through him anew, he kept his eyes on her as she danced in her father's arms.

"Your wife is still quite beautiful," the man to his side said.

He turned to look at Lord Elatan, the Lord of the seafaring people of Ethir Anduin. He was older than Denethor himself was, but was still hale due to a lifetime of seafaring. "Thank you," Denethor answered.

"However, the Lady seems paler than I remember her being," he commented. "Has she been ill?"

"She was ill for awhile this spring," Denethor answered. "But that seems to have passed now, thank Eru."

"I am thankful to hear it," he said. "It would be a great loss indeed, for you and for Gondor."

"Yes," Denethor answered. "It would be."

"If I may be so bold, m'lord…" Elatan said, "I wish to discuss a problem with you, in private if I may."

"Is it something so private it cannot be said for the others?" Denethor asked, turning to the man.

"Yes, I am afraid that it is."

"Very well," he said. "Tonight, after the feast is ended, come to my office. We will speak then."

"Thank you, my lord." Elatan bowed and stepped away.

Several hours later, Denethor finished a dance with his wife and then, returning to his place, clinked the side of his glass to catch the company's attention. The children who had been present were long since gone, the remaining food and wine were running low, and the hour was very late. Denethor himself was weary; he had danced with many of the ladies out of politeness, just as Finduilas had traded partners throughout the night. "One last dance!" Denethor called out over the general din of the merrymaking. "I thank you all!"

Heading back out onto the floor, he took his wife's hand, and they began to dance one last time. "Are you weary?" he asked her.

"Yes," she responded simply, "Very much so. It is late."

"Indeed." A few more steps passed in silence, when suddenly his wife faltered in her steps as though her legs had ceased to obey her and her face went white. Denethor managed to hold her up, though she had gone limp as a doll in his arms, her face slack as she trembled slightly in his arms.

Terror, the like of which Denethor had rarely felt, struck through him, along with a searing pain in his chest, as though an orcish sword had found its mark straight through his heart. The focus of the room narrowed until it was just her; it was as though the rest of the nobles and their ladies did not and had never existed.

Time itself seemed to slow as he laid her down on the cold floor, calling her name in vain as she lay senseless in his arms, his entire mind and soul begging her to open her eyes, to stop the tremors that were shuddering through her thin body. Vaguely, as though from a distance, he heard voices calling out orders; demanding healers and ushering the other guests out of the room, but Denethor did not heed them. Suddenly, after many minutes that seemed as long as hours, there was a hand on Denethor's shoulder, and for the first time since she had collapsed his gaze left her and fell on the face of his father-in-law. Turning his head the other direction, he saw the Warden of the Houses of Healing kneeling on the other side of his wife. "Lay her down," Adrahil was saying, but Denethor was loath to let her go. "Lay her down," the older man said again, and this time Denethor, his whole being suddenly numb, complied, watching from his knees as the warden did his work, knowing that a pace behind him Adrahil and Eärwen were waiting just as he was.

After an eternity of minutes, the Warden looked to the Steward and his face was grave. "I cannot lie to you my lord. The Lady is very ill. We must get her to bed quickly."

Denethor nodded and, waving away a servant who was hovering near to help, picked up his wife himself. Without looking about him, he carefully carried her to their chambers.

One he had laid his wife on their bed, Eärwen had, with a gentle hand, led him to the hallway and bid him stay there in a quiet but unyielding voice. Not knowing what else to do, Denethor had sat down on the bench in the hallway, vaguely noticing it was the same place where, years ago, Imrahil had sat and amusedly watched his brother-in-law pace the halls, waiting anxiously through the long hours where Finduilas had labored to bring Boromir into the world.

Now, however, Denethor knew he could not pace. It was as if all the energy he had felt had not been drained away, leaving nothing but emptiness and a terrified pain in its place. Waiting now was filled with dread as his mind now began to connect pieces of things she had said to him with things she had done, and it all seemed to point to the very moment when she had collapsed in his arms.

He was so involved in his thoughts he only dimly noted Adrahil's arrival, though the man put a hesitant hand on his son-in-law's shoulder for the briefest of moments. He noted but did not note the worry etched deeply in the older man's face as he took a position standing beside the bench, but did not sit. Everything was wrapped up in the thoughts of his wife, the way she had gone limp in his arms, her pained face as she lay on the floor trembling in his arms. It was as if the image had burned itself into his thoughts so there was no escaping it, and his heart burned with the pain of seeing her thus laid low by something he did not understand.

Head falling into his hands, he tried to take some deep, steadying breaths, but they did little to give him the anchor he needed. Pressing his eyes closed against the exhaustion, he tried again, breathing deeply in and then out.

Denethor was so deep in thought he almost missed the timid touch of a small hand on his knee. His head popped up and his eyes flew open, only to look into the small face of his youngest son. It was so odd to see Faramir without Boromir by his side that he cast his glance around just to be sure his oldest son was not there also. "Where is your brother?" Denethor asked.

"Sleeping," Faramir answered, his grey eyes meeting Denethor's, a noticeable trace of fear in them.

"And why are you not also in bed?" Denethor asked sternly.

"I woke up," Faramir stated. "Where's mother?"

"Sleeping," Denethor answered, "Which is precisely what you should be doing, Faramir."

"Is Mama sick?"

"Why do you ask that?" Denethor demanded, his voice coming out more sharply than it was wont to do.

Faramir took a step back, and looked down at the floor. "She always comes in to see us before she goes to bed, and she never came tonight. I was waiting because I wanted to tell her something but then she never came. And she always comes."

Denethor opened his mouth to speak, but it was Adrahil who addressed the child first. "Faramir," Adrahil said, "Your mother was very tired before she went to bed tonight, and she thought it was best to go to sleep right away. But if you tell me what you wanted to tell her, perhaps I could tell her for you in the morning."

"No, its okay, Grandfather…" Faramir looked down at his feet, but then met Adrahil's gaze with a frank look that seemed to suggest that he did not believe what either man was saying. "It's not so very important. I can tell her later, I guess."

"Then I think you need to go back to bed now, Faramir," Denethor told his young son firmly.

"But Father…"

"Not tonight, Faramir. Go back to bed." Faramir just stood looking at his father, and there was hesitancy in the young boy's eyes, and Denethor knew that the lies that he and Adrahil had told had not worked. His perceptive young son knew something was wrong, and for a moment Denethor thought Faramir would refuse and the anger the Steward now held simmering irrationally under his control would break loose.

It was then the door to Denethor and Finduilas' chambers opened and Eärwen came out. With one glance, she took in the situation, and then calmly walked over to her grandson, kneeling down on the floor before him. "Faramir, darling, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Mother's sick," the child stated, meeting her eyes with an unyielding gaze, almost like he was challenging his grandmother to tell him otherwise.

"Its true that your mother was not feeling well a little while ago, Faramir, but she's sleeping now. You need not worry any more tonight, all right? Can you please go back to bed like the good little boy your mother would want you to be?"

Faramir thought about that statement for a moment. "I just wanted to make sure Mother was all right," he told his grandmother as tears sprang up in his eyes. "She didn't come in to see me tonight, and she always does, and I knew something was wrong and Mother's sick and I don't want her to be."

"I know darling. None of us like that your mother is ill, not your father, or your grandfather, or myself. But everything that can be done has been done, and she is sleeping comfortably now. There is no reason to worry tonight. Come now, I'll take you back to bed and tuck you in if you would like." Faramir nodded past the tears and used one small hand to wipe them away. "All right, darling," Eärwen said, getting to her feet before reaching down and picking Faramir up and resting him on her hip. "We'll get you back to sleep and in the morning you can go in and see your mother." She gave him a slight smile and continued, as she walked with him down the hall to their room. "And that time will come so much more quickly if you go to sleep. Before you know it, it will be morning."

Denethor had watched the whole exchange silently, his gaze following them down the hall until they disappeared into the boys' room. He had not like the sound of the conversation, though perhaps even perceptive Faramir had missed the concern in the lines around Eärwen's eyes and how she had never promised that Finduilas was completely well. He felt cold inside as despair rose up in him, even though his stubborn mind refused to voice his greatest fear…a fear even the threat of Mordor or death in battle had never could not match.

Neither man seated in the hallway spoke, but with one glance at Adrahil's face, Denethor knew the Prince was as troubled as he himself was. They remained silent until Eärwen appeared again, and Denethor felt the remaining strength gained from the argument with his son vanish completely, and he knew that even if bid to, he could not stand. Eärwen met his gaze with a frank look that spoke volumes to the perceptive Steward before the older woman even opened her mouth to speak.

"I must tell you some things," Eärwen began, "Even though Finduilas extracted a promise from me not to. At this moment I see no sense in concealing them from you any longer. You have a right to know, as her husband of many years, and I believe now that I was wrong to make the vow of silence I did. Yet before I speak, I must tell you that Finduilas believed this the correct path, not because she wished to conceal them from you, but because she did not wish you to be troubled when your mind had to be on other things. I ask you now, before I even speak of this, to forgive her for that. She only kept her silence and made me promise my own because she loves you, and was more concerned for you than for herself." She paused, and Denethor found his voice was gone and he could not speak. Nevertheless, he gave a curt nod as a tacit agreement to her request. She sighed and looked away from him, turning instead towards the window on the opposite wall. "This is not the first time this has happened since we arrived," Eärwen admitted. "To my knowledge, it has happened twice before, in the month since we arrived. Once when I alone was with her, and once when we both were there." She glanced over to Adrahil, who was staring at the floor, his face covered by a mask of pain. At the glance, Eärwen's face gentled and for a moment her own grief was allowed to come through and become apparent on her age-lined face.

"What does the warden say ails her?" Denethor asked, feeling very much as though he had been struck. There was a long pause before his mother-in-law spoke again, and there was tension in her voice.

"He has no specific name for it," she answered. "But he is doing all he can for her." Denethor took that in and for a moment there was absolute silence in the hall. The torchlight flickered as if touched by an unfelt wind and caused the shadows to dance a slow waltz across the stone walls.

Denethor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight away the dread that was filling him; he felt as though he would shatter into a thousand pieces as if he were a precious vase dropped from the very heights of the Tower of Ecthelion. He could not bring himself to ask the one question that most mattered, the one thing that his heart burned to know. The thought itself was unspeakable; he did not want to be left alone.

The door swung open and the warden emerged with an unknown woman a pace behind. There was a great weariness on his face and in his eyes that Denethor could not help but mark as he forced himself to stand and meet the other man's eyes. "I have already told him what I know," Eärwen told the warden.

"Then you have been told all," the Warden said, and the statement was a curious mix between a question and a statement. "I swear I will do all I can for her, my lord. Only time will tell if my efforts will do any sort of good. I may be able to help her or perhaps this shall clear up on its own. It is not yet time to despair, my Lord."

Denethor swore his heart stopped beating. "Then, she may yet…" He could not bring himself to say the word.

"I will not deceive you by saying that I am not concerned," the warden answered, "But the lady is young and resilient. She has come through difficult times before, and there is yet no major reason to believe she will not come through this as well. Hope is not yet lost."

Denethor nodded to the warden, who bowed. "I will return in the morning," he told the Steward, "Lady Isëlmra is with her now, but I could send someone else to look after her, if you will it."

"Nay, that is not necessary," Denethor told the Warden. "Thank you, all the same." The Warden bowed again.

"I live to serve, my lord," he replied and left the hallway, the second woman trailing behind him silently.

"Adrahil," Eärwen said then, "I believe we ought to retire, now that we know what there is to know." The aged prince nodded and got to his feet, having remained silent for the entire exchange.

"Yes, of course," he answered his wife and with a nod to Denethor reached his hand out to her.

"If there is any change, please send for me immediately," his wife's mother said. Denethor nodded, and together Adrahil and Eärwen went away down the hall.

Denethor himself turned to look at the door for a long moment, steadying himself as he reached out to turn the handle. It opened slowly before him, and he had stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him before he allowed himself to look over at their bed. Isëlmra was sitting by the bedside facing the door; she met his eyes and stood when he came into the room. He gave her only the briefest of glances before he looked to his wife. She was asleep, her face pale, her entire body motionless underneath the rich coverlet.

He forced himself to walk forward to the bedside to look down into her face, peaked and pale, the firelight casting the same shadowy dance across her beloved features. He just stood silently, watching her, his hands clenched at his sides, getting up his strength to be able to speak. When he finally did, his voice was no more than a whisper. "Thank you, Isëlmra," he told the older woman, "You can go." She looked up at him, startled, and for a moment he thought she would argue, but instead she rose and, with a bow, slipped away from the room.

The instant she was out of his sight, Denethor forgot about her, seating himself in the same chair she had been in moments previously. The Steward sat for a long time unmoving, his eyes on his beloved's motionless face, the fear and the grief he was feeling intensified by the utter silence of the room about him that was broken only intermittently by the snap of the fire.

When he finally could not stand it anymore, he sat forward in the chair and took Finduilas' hand where it lay on top of the coverlet, holding it in his own with just enough force to comfort himself but not to awake the sleeper. Denethor had always been an eloquent man, though not a very open one. After the first few years of their marriage, when they had grown comfortable with each other and in their lives together, he had not often told her how he felt, for he knew his wife understood without needing words.

Now, however, they poured from him without hesitation, without censorship, for the sight of her beloved face so pale and still struck Denethor deep in his heart, causing an incredible pain that was only matched at the thought of another pain that may yet come. "Finduilas…" Denethor began, even as he fought the tears that were threatening to come to his eyes, "Please, beloved…" He blinked hard. "I was nothing before I knew you…you gave me everything I am, everything I have today. I…I cannot lose you…"

There was no reply, not even a twitch, to show that she had heard and understood his pleas. It was as if she were already lost, gone far beyond where he could follow. Keeping one hand firmly around hers, his other hand came to his face as he wept.

Denethor did not sleep that night, exhausted though he was. Even if he had tried to rest, he doubted he would have been able to find sleep. Dawn found him sitting still by her side, the emotional tears of the first shock having faded into a calm despair that seemed to strike him to the very core of his being. The depth of his feelings did not, however, appear on his worry-lined face. Throughout the long sleepless night of watching, a decision had been made that he would not reveal his true fear to his wife, who needed all her strength to become well, not in worrying about her own husband. He had to be strong for her sake, more so than for his own, though it would not be easy.

Denethor sighed and stood, walking over to the door that led out onto their small balcony, stretching his back as he did so, for it had grown stiff over the hours he had sat by her side. The day was getting lighter, although the dark clouds of soot and ash that hung over Mordor to the east obscured the sunrise. Sighing again, he took a deep breath of the crisp spring air and then re-entered the room. Returning to her bedside, he found her eyes open, and she gave a small smile at him, though there was shame in her eyes. "Finduilas," he said, and his voice was relieved.

"Can you see the sunrise today?" she asked him, before he could say anything else.

"No," he answered as he sat down, drawing the chair closer to her bedside, "The East is too dark."

"Oh," she answered, and her smile faded. "I miss the sunrise," she said after a moment. "They were always beautiful in Dol Amroth."

"I know," Denethor answered, and for a long moment there was silence between them, a heavy, uncomfortable silence. It was not often Denethor could find no words to speak to break the silence between himself and his wife, but now his emotions were charged so highly that he was left speechless. He did not know whether to feel only grief, or whether he should be angry she had concealed the truth from him.

In the end, it was she who broke the silence and her voice was soft but unhesitating when she had finally decided to speak. "I am sorry, Denethor," she said softly. "I was wrong to conceal this from you. I should have told you the moment it first happened." He looked over at her to find her gaze had fallen and her thin hand was playing nervously with the sheets. "I did not wish to deceive you, but…I did not wish you to worry needlessly, not when you had so much else to occupy your mind. I understand if you are angry."

"I am not angry," Denethor answered, and it was the truth. The anger he had felt at first had faded, leaving him with an empty, helpless feeling, and the realization that it was because she loved him and wanted what was best for him that she had lied. "I just want you to be well, Finduilas. That is all that matters to me now."

"I am trying, dearest," Finduilas said.

"I know." Silence fell between them then, as if that was all that had needed to be said.

He spent the entire day at her side, and into the next before a quiet knock on the door interrupted his vigil. Finduilas was sleeping, so he carefully laid her hand back down on the bed and crossed to the door, finding Lord Adrahil on the other side. "Excuse me," he said quietly. "He regrets to disturb you, but Lord Elatan is leaving within the next few hours, and he wondered if you might have time for a word with him. He promised not to take much of your time, for he knows that your place right now is with your wife."

Denethor sighed. He had forgotten about Elatan, and the last thing he wanted to do was speak to the man. Still, there was no choice. When he gave his word, it was binding. "Very well," he conceded. "Will you stay with her?"

"Of course," Adrahil said, moving aside so Denethor could step out.

"I'll be back quickly." He headed for his office.

He had been there only a moment when there was a knock on the door and Elatan entered when bid, bowing low. "I regret to disturb you at such a time, my lord," he said. "I pray your forgiveness."

"I gave you my word," Denethor said. "And I mean to keep it."

"All the same, my lord, I would have understood if you did not."

"Yes, yes," Denethor said. "What is it you wished to speak to me of?"

"I have been…approached."

"Approached? By who?"

"The Corsairs." That got Denethor's attention quickly. "I informed the council that they had stepped up their attacks, but I did not wish to mention that they had sent an emissary to see me."

"Why?" Denethor asked, somewhat sharply.

"They wished my aid in renewing the attack on Gondor's southern borders. Of course I refused, and sent them on their way, but I fear that they have approached some of the others as well. If he turns even one of them to their side, and they were very persuasive, then I fear it could be Gondor's downfall."

"I do not think any of them could possibly be swayed by the traitors," Denethor said. "However, I thank you for the warning."

"I don't know, my lord. Sides are being chosen for the war. Sauron, I fear, will move within our lifetimes, and I fear that Gondor will not be strong enough to stand. Others may have the same fear, and choose the wrong side."

"That is many years in the future," Denethor said.

"But not so far away as it once was. The Mountain of Fire burns again, and Sauron's fortress has been rebuilt. And yet, there is no way to spy on him, or on the traitorous Corsairs. Among my people live many of those who fled Ithilien in the path of the evil spreading from the Black Land."

"I will do what I can," Denethor said. "I thank you for the warning, and I hope that you will be patient. Please send me word if they approach you again, and keep your eyes on the river. I trust you will defend the entry."

"With my life," Elatan swore. "Thank you my lord."

Denethor went back to his wife with a heavy heart, concerned over what Elatan had told him, though it did not show on his face. Upon entering their chambers, he found Adrahil sitting, watching his daughter sleep, with concern on his face. When Denethor entered he stood. "Is all well?" he asked his father in law.

"She has not awoken," Adrahil answered. "There has been no change."

"Very well," Denethor said with a sigh. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, my lord."

"I know you return to Dol Amroth soon. I would request that you be extra vigilant in watching the Bay."

"Why?" Adrahil asked, and Denethor explained what Elatan had told him. "They may seek to approach the others, if that is the case."

"I will be wary," Adrahil promised. "Dol Amroth will not allow such a thing to happen."

"I thank you," Denethor said with a nod, sitting down again by his wife's side.

"I live to serve, my lord," Adrahil said, reaching out to gently touch his daughter's forehead before leaving the room as quietly as he had come.

Time passed quickly then, one day bleeding into the next, until Denethor could scarcely tell night from day. The morning hours he spent in his study, dealing with the most urgent of problems for the city and the realm, and trying to find news to support what Elatan had told him, but by mid-afternoon he abandoned the rest to his advisors and returned to their chambers to spend the rest of the day and night with his wife.

For the first few days, she had seemed to get a little better, her smile faster, almost as if the relief that he now knew was enough to aid her in healing. She spent most of it in their garden, walking and laughing with her father and mother, who had remained beyond the end of the council, or their sons; the threat looming over her seemed to fade away for a few brief, beautiful days.

Yet it soon began to change. Adrahil and Eärwen, though reluctant, could no longer delay their return to Dol Amroth and departed. Denethor had avoided the parting between his wife and her parents, not wishing to intrude on their last moments together, remembering full well his wife's earlier words and realizing himself just how old Adrahil now appeared. Once they had gone, however, Finduilas grew much more quiet and introspective. It pained Denethor to see her pain, for he knew she felt it keenly, though she did not say anything to him about it.

The Warden came daily, bringing various remedies to help her and a cheery outlook that Denethor realized his wife responded to, something that he was struggling to maintain. He hated to see her faltering, her beautiful green eyes distant as she bore the waves of discomfort uncomplainingly.

Denethor awoke one morning still weary, for he did not sleep long when he permitted himself to sleep at all. Sitting up, he turned to glance at his wife and found her eyes already open. When he shifted, she turned to him with a smile, moving only her head. "Good morning," she said softly."

"Good morning," he replied, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Weary," she replied. "My head aches."

"Can I help you?"

"Not at present," Finduilas answered. "Isëlmra came in awhile ago; she already gave me the remedy the Warden left." There was a long silence, and she closed her eyes again. "I am so tired of this, Denethor," she said, and there was a catch in her voice. "I want to be well again."

"I know," Denethor said gently, brushing several strands of hair from her face. Her eyes flickered open and met his, and he saw the tears in them.

"Hold me?" she asked, and Denethor gave her a gentle smile.

"Forever," he answered, laying down again and drawing her into his arms. He felt some of the tension in her body disappear as she rested her head on his shoulder, though after a moment he felt the hot wetness of a tear on his bare shoulder. His hand moved from where it had rested on her back and began to stroke her hair, using his other hand to pull her more closely to him. "Please do not cry," he whispered to her. "It will be all right."

"I am scared it will not be," Finduilas said. "I am trying to be brave, but it is so difficult, Denethor."

"I know," he assured her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know." There was a long silence and then her voice came again, muffled slightly.

"I feel so much stronger when you are with me, beloved. Promise me you will never leave me?"

"I promise." He felt her smile against his chest and, after several minutes, felt her breathing even as she fell back to sleep.

It was mid-afternoon before, summoning his advisors, he began to move through the business of the day. He had not wished to leave her, but he also could not leave the business of the country undone, though he wished to throw everything that demanded his attention into the Anduin and return to her side.

It was to be a long afternoon. Several hours had passed before a page came knocking on the door and, entering in, bowed and spoke. "My lord, forgive my intrusion, but I was sent to inform you that a ship from Dol Amroth has just arrived, and Lord Imrahil has come."

Imrahil. Denethor would have been lying if he had denied the possibility that his wife's brother would come. Still, he had not truly expected him…not yet. His first thought, which came unbidden to his mind, was that the younger man had made the long journey to say goodbye.

No, Denethor told himself firmly. It was ridiculous. Imrahil undoubtedly had merely thought that he would have a good influence on his sister's recovery, since they were so close. "All right, thank you," he told the page, his voice firm. "Please send word to my wife. Tell her I will be there shortly." The messenger bowed and disappeared, and Denethor turned back to his advisors. They would finish this quickly.

When he arrived in the courtyard, in the shadow of the long-dead White Tree, he was surprised to see Finduilas standing to the southern side, staring to the south-east towards the river. She was alone, wrapped in one of her light green spring cloaks, the wind whipping about her like a maelstrom. He walked over to her and spoke her name, but she did not seem to hear him. In her pale face there was a look of yearning, and for a moment, her eyes fell closed almost as if she hoped to capture a sight or a sound that she could not find.

His gentle hand on her shoulder caused her eyes to fly open and she turned abruptly. "Denethor," she said, and the look of longing turned into a smile as her hand reached out to take his. "I thought you were Imrahil."

"Disappointed?" he asked gently, smiling at her.

"No," she answered, squeezing his hand with all the strength that remained in her thin fingers. "This is such a surprise though. I was not expecting his coming."

"The boys will be excited."

"Yes," Finduilas commented softly and, keeping her hand in his, turned back to look out over the city and the fields far below. They were silent for a long moment before she gave a soft sigh.

"Is something wrong?" Denethor asked instantly.

"I am merely tired," Finduilas replied.

"Would you like to go back inside?" Denethor asked.

"No, I want to wait for my brother," she answered firmly. "He will be here soon. Then we can go inside and I will rest." Denethor simply nodded. He wanted to protest, but he had come to learn that sometimes, it was a worthless exercise. Unless she collapsed from exhaustion, nothing would keep Finduilas from waiting until Imrahil had appeared in the courtyard.

"Mama, Papa!" came their son's childish voice, and both parents turned to see Faramir running across the courtyard towards them, grinning from ear to ear, Boromir a few paces behind.

"Hello, darlings," Finduilas said as Faramir came and hugged her about the legs. "How did your lessons go this morning?"

"They went well, Mother," Boromir answered her simply, while Faramir cheerfully and quickly told her everything he had learned that morning.

"But then Isëlmra came in and said that Uncle Imrahil was coming, is that true Mama?"

"It is very true, my dearest Faramir," Finduilas told him, her smile gentle. "He will be here very soon."

Denethor gave a slight smile and then looked over to Boromir. His eldest son was looking at his mother with a critical eye, and Denethor could see a trace of worry in his eyes, almost like his thoughts were echoing Denethor's own, questioning why Imrahil had chosen now to journey to Minas Tirith.

"Why is he coming, Mother?" Boromir asked then. Denethor looked to his wife, and saw the moment of hesitation, however brief, before she answered her son.

"I am not entirely sure, Boromir. Perhaps he does not need a reason?" Both Faramir and Boromir were looking closely at their mother now, and just as Denethor opened his mouth to speak in an attempt to allay their worries even though he felt the same way, there was a sound from the entrance to the courtyard, and the entire family turned to see Imrahil striding towards them.

Faramir was off first, running to his uncle with childish enthusiasm. He was greeted by Imrahil swinging him up into his arms, as Imrahil carried him back to his parents, listening to him as he talked.

When the young man reached them, he put Faramir down and embraced his sister first, holding her for a long moment before pulling away and almost hesitantly searching her face. Finduilas met his gaze with a smile, one that brought some of the old light back into her eyes and a hint of color into her pale cheeks. "It is so good to see you, brother," she said contentedly, embracing him again.

After a moment, Imrahil pulled away and extended his hand to Denethor, who took it in a warrior's salute. "Welcome," Denethor told his brother-in-law. "It is good to have you here."

"Thank you," Imrahil said with a smile, and then turned to his older nephew and extended his hand in the same way. Denethor smiled to himself as his son straightened, a slight look of surprise on his face, and then responded to the salute as Denethor had.

"Uncle," he said, his face breaking into a large grin, unable to hide his pleasure at being treated as more than a child. Denethor stepped forward and put a hand on his eldest son's shoulder, glancing over to his wife.

Finduilas was smiling, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of distance as she watched her son and brother. Denethor started to take a step towards her, but almost as if she had seen the movement, she spoke, extending her hand to her younger son. "Come, Imrahil," she said, "You must be tired. I am sure it must have been a long journey for you. I am sorry you did not bring Eryniel with you."

"Yes," Imrahil answered, again casting a critical glance at his sister. "Well, she would have come, except it was not a good time for her."

"What do you mean, Imrahil?" Finduilas asked as she started walking back towards the Citadel. Denethor had some idea of what the answer would be, something that was confirmed when a broad, almost boyish, smile spread across the other lord's face.

"She is expecting our first child," he told his sister. Finduilas actually stopped walking and turned to her brother, her smile broad and her eyes sparkling, though there was a hint of tears within them.

"Oh, Imrahil!" she said, "I am pleased to hear it!"

"I thought you would be," Imrahil said, "I have to admit, I was pleased myself."

"We're going to have a cousin?" Faramir asked, looking from his mother to his uncle and back again.

"Yes, indeed, Faramir," Imrahil said, as he reached down and picked up his nephew.

"I hope it is not a girl," Faramir said.

"Why not, darling?" Finduilas asked as they again began walking towards the Citadel.

"Because they are weird," was the appropriate four-year-old answer. "Boys are better."

"I doubt you would think that if you had a sister yourself," Imrahil told his nephew, and then cast a sly glance to his sister. "But then again, maybe you would."

A delicate eyebrow arched, and in a dry voice, his wife retorted "Not nearly as strange as younger brothers," she answered.

"Hey!" Faramir said, turning to his mother, "I am not weird!"

"Are you not?" nine-year-old Boromir added, looking up to his brother. For a moment, Faramir struggled, and Imrahil put him down. Boromir, laughing, took off running, Faramir following, though he was no nearly as fast as his older brother, leaving the adults to walk alone.

None of them spoke as they entered the Citadel, yet when the came to the hall which would take Denethor to his office, he broke the silence. "Finduilas, I have a few more things to take care of this afternoon."

"All right," she said, pausing and turning to him. Denethor smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll take my time," he added softly, brushing a finger across a pale cheek.

"Thank you," she answered, taking his hand and squeezing it for a moment before she and Imrahil continued towards the family quarters. Denethor looked after them for a moment before turning and going towards his study. He could find something to occupy himself for a few hours at least…

Denethor had been working for about an hour, pouring over reports on Corsair activity, growing more and more frustrated at the lack of support for what Elatan had said, when a knock came on the door. He laid aside his quill, pushed away the frustration, and straightened the sheets in front of him. "Enter!" he called, looking to the door to see who would disturb him while he was working. Many in the city would not, unless it was the height of urgency.

Part of him was surprised when Imrahil entered, but another part of him told him that he should not have been. Rising to his feet, he motioned to the pair of chairs placed before the fireplace, and both men walked towards them. Usually, Denethor would have a subordinate stand before the desk, but with his wife's brother it seemed only proper to talk man-to-man even though, Denethor reflected, he probably did not wish to know what the other lord had to say.

They sat silently for a moment, staring into the fireplace though there was no fire built due to the summer's warmth. At long last, Imrahil spoke quiet words that nevertheless shattered the almost tangible silence between them. "She does not look well."

"No," Denethor said without meeting the younger man's eyes. "She does not." Silence again. It was the first time Denethor had admitted to someone else that he thought so; he had been trying to deny the paleness of her cheeks, the dark hollows under her eyes, the thinness of her weakening body. "I…worry for her." A shudder ran through the aging steward at those words. He did not often speak his true mind, save to Finduilas, but it was a relief to say them, for he knew Imrahil loved her as much as Denethor himself did, in his own way. "Everything that can be done is being done," Denethor said, "Yet she grows no better. She smiles and carries on as if all is well, but I can see the pain in her eyes, see how even the slightest exertions can leave her gasping for breath…And I…I can do nothing. Nothing except watch her suffer."

Almost without warning he felt tears pricking at his eyes, and he straightened his posture and made a manful effort to push them away. "Excuse me, Lord Imrahil," he said, rising to his feet. Without another word, he strode out of his office, leaving a startled Imrahil behind.

Denethor was not even aware of where he was going; all he knew was that he needed solitude. The tears were threatening more insistently now, and proud as he was, he would not shed them for anyone to see. He found himself walking quickly, unsure as to where his feet were taking him until he found himself entering the White Tower. There were too many people about on the first level so he went to the stairs. With a glare to the guards standing at the entrance, he spoke in a firm voice, knowing his face was wrapped in a scowl. "No one is to pass."

"My lord," the higher-ranking man said, saluting in acknowledgement. Satisfied his order would be followed, Denethor entered the dark stairwell and headed up, around and around, climbing farther and farther until he came out at the top. Once there, he collapsed onto a stone bench that ran around the edge of the round chamber at the top and allowed himself to bury his head in his hands. The tears that had threatened began to fall freely and, sure he was completely alone, Denethor wept.

He lost count of how much time passed, but when at last the tears slowed, Denethor wiped his eyes and leaned back against the wall, thankful for the stability of the stone behind him. Forcing his breathing to return to normal, he cast his eyes about the room, catching glimpses of the view about him. This room had been a refuge for him for many years, since his childhood when his father had brought him here.

He noted where he was; the south side of the tower. Rising to his feet, almost without thinking he crossed the room to the western side and paused in front of the break in the bench there. There were four such breaks in each of the cardinal directions; everything in the room appeared uniform.

However, appearances were deceiving. Standing before the wall, he paused a moment as the idea that had been forming in his head coalesced, and words his father had spoken forty years before on the very spot where Denethor now stood came unbidden to his head.

"You are old enough now to know my son. Here, in the tower, rests something that the house of the Stewards inherited with the rule of Gondor."

Ecthelion's hands, not yet stained by age, reaching out and pressing several places on the wall, and before him a door swung open…

In the present, Denethor's hands made the same motion that his father had decades earlier and the door swung open. He entered the small corridor, swinging the heavy stone door closed behind him. Mounting the stairs in the pitch darkness, he climbed until he appeared in another room completely.

"The Arnor-Stone, one of the seven palantíri brought by Elendil from the wreck of Númenor. I would not chance to use it, for as you have been taught we know not where the others are. But it is time you know, for it is indeed part of your inheritance."

It was still there, underneath a black cloth with the White Tree embroidered in silver upon it. He stood there, motionless, staring at it for a long moment, and the debate hung heavy over his head. It was here and, if he could use it, perhaps…however slim the chance…perhaps he could bend its sight to the south, to the sea…He could seek the answers to the questions Elatan had posed, see the true intentions of the men to the south…

At that thought, something else suddenly occurred to him, as he stood there staring at the cloth. If he could bend its sight south, to the sea…it would be possible to give Finduilas a glimpse of the beloved home that he knew she missed. Finduilas never said so, never complained, but Denethor knew she yearned for the sight of the sea and her own city. Could he do such a thing? If it were possible, could Finduilas then see the same thing, especially in her weakened state?

It all came to one conclusion. He had to try. Not only for Gondor's sake, but for hers.

Reaching out, still hesitating a moment, Denethor removed the cloth covering the stone and, laying it aside, he dropped it to the floor. After only another moment's hesitation, Denethor laid his hands on the stone itself and shut his eyes, willing the grey towers of Dol Amroth to appear before him.

Before his eyes, the swan banners of his wife's city appeared before him, and he stretched out still further, his gaze falling upon Adrahil, working at his desk, and Eärwen, embroidering in her sitting room. He pulled away, his gaze sweeping over the great Bay of Belfalas, west to the Great River, and south down the coast. In his vision, he saw for the first time the brown city of the Corsairs, saw their black ships sitting still in the harbor, and noted that there seemed to be little or no movement of the ships towards the north. Several sailed south as he watched, but there was no indication of movement towards Gondor herself.

He hesitated a moment, then his gaze turned westward, to the Ephel Dúath and dared to peek over the high, sharp mountains with his sight, down into the Black Land itself. He only took a moment's glimpse, for the instant his gaze peered over the shadowy mountains and fell upon Barad-dûr, he felt something…a fearful malice, and in his mind's eye he suddenly saw a fiery eye, falling upon him.

With a great effort he dropped the palantír, his breathing hard, his eyes wide, his hands trembling. Grabbing the cloth, he dropped it over the black sphere, where the red eye was still visible. Staggering backwards, he felt himself strike the wall, and he grasped at anything that might offer a solid grounding to the world about him.

It was too dangerous. The possibility of using the palantír to show Finduilas the sea she yearned for was now impossibility. He would not risk her, weak and frail as she was, to such an effort that he had expended to see what he had seen. While there seemed to be no danger in it, it had taken a great amount of his will.

The loss of that consolation hit Denethor hard, and his knees went weak beneath him. Collapsing to the floor, he buried his head in his hands again, feeling the heavy weight of his years and a wash of despair. He truly was powerless to help her…

It was twilight by the time Denethor left the Tower, closing the secret door quietly behind him and descending the long flights of stairs as he resolved to only use the palantir at times of great need. The guards had changed in the time he had been above, and they went to attention as he passed. Denethor ignored them, taking a deep breath as he exited the Tower into the courtyard beneath it. All signs of his weakness gone, not wishing to worry his wife, he walked with quick paces, knowing that it was nearly time for dinner to have been laid out.

Movement out of the corner of his eye where there had been none caused him to slow slightly, and he turned to see who had joined him in his walk across the courtyard. Boromir did not say anything at all or even make eye contact with his father beyond the briefest of glances; instead, his small hand reached up and took his father's, holding it as they walked. The Steward looked down to his son, seeing the worry in the child's eyes, and a profound rush of love washed over the normally stern man. It was a relief, for it broke through the relentless despair he had been feeling since his conversation with Imrahil and his encounter with the palantír.

When they reached the threshold of their home, Denethor stopped and smiled down at his son. Boromir met the gaze with a tentative look of his own, the worry fading when he saw the caring look in his father's eyes. "Thank you, Boromir," Denethor told his son, ruffling his hair slightly as he had done when Boromir was much younger. Boromir's smile grew in return and nodded before together, hand in hand, father and son went inside.

Denethor sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose in an attempt to get rid of the throbbing headache that was forming behind his temples. It was mid-afternoon, and he was still in his office, getting caught up on work that had been bypassed because of Finduilas' ill health. Now, however, he felt better about spending time in his office, knowing that his ailing wife had company while he looked to the affairs of Gondor. There had not been much change in her condition since Imrahil's arrival, but Denethor knew that her brother's presence made his wife happy in a way that even he, her husband, could not.

When all was said and done, however, he had grown no less worried since Imrahil's arrival. When the Warden came, his face was no longer laughing and cheerful, it was serious and subdued. Denethor did not like the change. Sighing, he set aside the report he had finished reading and scanned the next. So much work to do, it was hard to believe that one man could do it all, and yet he had been for nearly five years.

A hurried pounding on the door drew his attention completely away from the paper before him, and he bid the person enter. It was Isëlmra, and the look on her feet had Denethor on his feet and heading for the door before she even said a word. "What happened?" he demanded as the older woman tried to catch her breath.

"She collapsed again," Isëlmra said, "But it is far worse this time. Not only that, but your sons were there to see it."

Denethor's mind quickly cycled through all the curses he had learned back in his youth, when he had been a soldier of Gondor, before his official duties as heir to the stewardship took him away from the battlefield, except on rare occasions. The fear he felt now was not only for Finduilas, but for his sons. The true extent of their mother's ailing health had been kept from them, young as they were, but there was no longer any way to hide it now. "Where are my sons now?" he demanded as they hurried through the hallways.

"I don't know," the older woman answered hesitantly, flustered. "Only a moment after the warden was called for, as I was going over to take them out of the room, Faramir ran, and Boromir followed him. I know not where they went."

Denethor did not like that answer, but as he knew his older son would take care of the younger he forced that worry away for the time being, for now they were at the door to their chambers and Denethor had to go in, had to see her, and there was no room for thought about anything else.

The door swung open before him, and the scene before him filled him with dread. The warden, sweating and harried, his face full of deep concern, was working over Finduilas, who was lying so still, and was so pale, that Denethor's heart stopped with the fear that she was already dead, that he had come too late. For suddenly, in his soul, he knew that she was dying, that if she were not already dead, the day was soon coming where her failing body could no longer take the strain of her long, unnamed illness, and she would be lost to him forever.

That realization caused him to freeze, and he reached out to the table near himself for support, his eyes falling closed and a mad desire to weep striking him dumb with pain. He was sure that, if he had been any stronger, the table would have cracked under the pressure he was putting on it.

A hand on his shoulder then, strong and firm, and Denethor forced his grey eyes open to meet Imrahil's gaze. In the younger man's eyes, Denethor saw the same knowledge he knew was reflected in his own. She was lost to them. "Is she…" Denethor asked, his voice trailing off. Imrahil glanced over to where the warden was working.

"Not yet," the younger man said, and his voice broke.

There was a rush of relief that mingled with the pain, and Denethor found himself trembling, unable to release his iron grip on the table. There were no words that could be said, nothing that either man could do. For a man who was unused to being helpless, the feeling was strong enough to destroy, to shatter every emotion within him until there was nothing but an endless agony, a pain and terror that left him weak.

Too young…she was too young for this; too young to be torn from him…their sons were too young to face the pain of losing their mother. And he…Gondor or no, Denethor did not feel like he would be able to live without her smile, the soft touch of her hand. His grip grew even tighter, and he felt warmth on his fingers. He looked down at his hand, from which he felt strangely detached, and saw blood flowing from the tip of one where his fingernails had been partially torn back, though there was no pain at all. He was strangely numb, all over, in his despair.

Then there was again a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head away from his bloody hand to face whoever it was. Imrahil. His wife's brother was pale, and holding out a goblet to him. "Drink this," his brother-in-law suggested. Denethor stared at the cup for a long moment, before his free hand went to take the glass. His hand was trembling even as he took it, and a little of the wine inside splashed out, staining his sleeve with red as the cup made its way to his mouth.

He drank deeply, disjointedly noting that the wine had an almost bitter taste, finishing the glass within moments. When he had finished, his unsteady hand allowed the goblet to crash to the floor, and the silence he felt to the core of his being was shattered by the sound of the metal against stone. The normal noises of the room began to seep their way back into his ears, even as he felt his muscles relaxing and his grip on the table loosening, almost against his will. So tired…He took a staggering step forward, allowing Imrahil to take his arm and help him to his chair before the fire.

He had just rested himself down into it when darkness claimed him, and for the moment, he was granted a respite from the fear and despair that had been overwhelming him.

When Denethor awoke it was twilight, and he felt a good deal calmer as he stretched and got to his feet. Fighting the churning in his stomach, he went to Finduilas' bedside, glancing over at Isëlmra, seated there with tears streaking down her aged face. "Where are my sons?" he demanded, his voice flat and emotionless.

"With Lord Imrahil, my lord," Isëlmra answered, looking up to him for the first time. "He's looking after them."

"You may go, Isëlmra," he then ordered, leaving no room for argument in both the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes. "Be sure they are both fed and put to bed at the proper hour."

"Yes, my lord," Isëlmra said, curtsying, though the look on her face suggested that she wanted nothing more than to disobey. Casting one last, wistful look at the woman on the bed, she quietly left the room.

When she was gone, Denethor sat himself down in the chair she had vacated to wait. The healers would return, and Finduilas would wake, and he would be there, waiting, when it happened. There would be no doubt of that.

He did not sleep, merely sat and watched, reaching out to caress her hand, her beautiful dark hair, the stark hollows of her pale cheeks. The hours fled by, their suddenly limited nature making them precious even as they sped away. One time and then again, he felt the tears come as he caressed her gently, feeling the silkiness of her hair and the softness of her ashen skin.

The sound of the door opening jolted him from his reverie, and his head jolted up in surprise and sudden anger at the person who would dare trespass upon his solitude, guarding his wife's sickbed. The anger lessened just a little when he saw that it was Faramir. The five-year old made his way over to the bed in the darkness, and Denethor suddenly rose to his feet. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of his son in an irritated whisper.

Faramir looked up at him, his lip beginning to tremble. "I wanted to see Mama."

"You shouldn't be here, Faramir."

"But Papa…"

"You've seen her now, Faramir. She's asleep."

"But…"

"Go to bed!" he snapped. Tears filled Faramir's eyes but, casting one last glance at his mother, he obeyed, casting one last, disappointed glance to his father. For only a moment, Denethor regretted his words, and was just about to call the child back when, on the bed, Finduilas stirred. The child was instantly forgotten as Denethor leaned over her bedside, taking her chilled hand in his own. "Finduilas?" he asked gently, no hint of the despair he was feeling entering into his soft voice.

Her beautiful eyes flickered open and fell upon her husband's concerned face. "Denethor…" she breathed weakly, "I'm sorry…I…"

"Shhh, beloved…" Denethor said, stroking her raven dark hair, "Relax yourself, you'll do yourself no good if you worry."

"Our sons…are they…"

"Do not trouble yourself, they are all right." He bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered again, "I don't want to leave you…"

"My love, please…you will be well soon enough, you won't be leaving us."

"Your lips say one thing, but the despair in your eyes speaks to something different," Finduilas said. "You cannot lie to me, Denethor. You must accept the truth, not only for your own sake but for our sons. They'll need you so, when I've gone…" She pressed her eyes closed and tears began to leak out from behind the closed lids. "Oh, Denethor, they're so young!"

There was nothing to say, Denethor reflected, no way to answer his wife's distressed cry except with a squeeze on the hand and tears of his own, tears that fell hot and fast as he clung to her hand in anguish. "You…" he said, his voice breaking as he studied her face. "You can't go, Finduilas. You can't. You can't." His voice fell to a whisper.

"I haven't a choice," she said, and her eyes flickered open. "I haven't a choice…" She reached weak, trembling arms up, and her eyes begged him to hold her, a demand that he met instantly, holding her tight as if to forcefully hold him to her, to keep her from slipping away. "I love you," she whispered, her voice soft in the silence, broken only by the sounds of a man valiantly fighting tears.

There was nothing more to be said.

"Denethor?" Finduilas asked him, her breath rasping in her throat, her hands roving listless at her side, the dark shadows near her eyes speaking of the mortal weariness that was slowly overcoming her failing body.

"Yes?" he asked, studying her in the darkness of their bedroom, lit only by a few candles placed near the bedside.

"My head aches. Is there any of the warden's tea left?" Denethor nodded, caressing her hand for reassurance before stepping over to pour her tea. Returning to her bedside, he helped her to sit and drink before laying her back down and setting the cup aside. "I want to see my sons, Denethor. And my brother."

"Don't you think you ought to be resting?"

"Please, Denethor…" her dull, pleading green eyes met his, and numbly he nodded. Tiredly she smiled at him, reaching her thin hand out to touch his where it rested on the bed. "Thank you, beloved."

"I'll send for them." Rising to his feet, he went to do so, coming back to the bed and sitting down beside her. Reaching out, he took her hand again, and she gave him another tired smile before speaking.

"All will be well, Denethor," she whispered.

"How can it be?" he asked. "Finduilas, I…"

"I told you once," she said as a too thin, trembling hand reached up to gently caress his face, "That if it ever were to happen, you would have to be strong for our sons, my love. You have to be now. They're still so young…" she blinked back tears. "Denethor, I tried…I want to stay with you, I do, but…every day I've lost a little more, and I know I haven't the strength. Not now. I'm so sorry…" She blinked harder and her hand fell away from his face to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I love you so, so much…"

"There is still hope, beloved…" Denethor whispered, though the words sounded false even as they passed his lips. "Do not speak this way…"

"I have to, Denethor. You understand as well as I do, I can see it in your eyes. You look at me as though I were already lost!"

"You're not…" he whispered, reaching out to wipe her tears away, taking her face in his hands. "You're not."

"Denethor, I…" she began, even as there was a hesitant knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Denethor commanded.

"Your sons, my lord," the guard's voice came through the heavy wooden door. Finduilas wiped her eyes again and with trembling limbs pushed herself into a sitting position. Denethor got to his feet.

"Send them in!" he ordered, and the door swung open. Boromir and Faramir entered, hand in hand, Boromir's face carefully schooled to neutral, fear in Faramir's eyes.

"My boys…" Finduilas said, "Come over here by mother." Faramir pulled away from his brother's hand and ran over to her bed, jumping onto the bed without thought and crawling over to where his mother was lying. Finduilas tucked her younger son under one arm and then beckoned to Boromir, who had paused by the side of the bed. "Come up here, Boromir," she said, holding open her other arm for him. Faramir shifted to her other side as Boromir removed his boots and crawled up onto the bed, with a side glance to his father, who had moved to the other side of the room and was staring into the fire, his back to them. "Let us just sit for a moment," Finduilas whispered, pressing a kiss to Faramir's head, then to Boromir's. "My boys," she whispered, and there was a trace of tears in her voice. "My darling boys."

"Mother?" Boromir asked, and the question was in his voice.

There was no way to tell them, no way to assuage the grief to come. "Darlings, you are so wonderful to me," she said, pressing a kiss first to Boromir's head, and then to Faramir's. "You are two of the three greatest gifts my life has known. I want you to know that, and to remember it."

There was silence for a long moment before Faramir spoke, his voice full of tears. "They said you have to go away," he whispered.

"Who did, love?"

"I heard someone say so. I don't know who. But Mama," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "I don't want you to go away!"

"I know, dearest Faramir, I know. But sometimes, you must do what you do not wish to, because there is no choice. Do you remember the story I told you, about the first Faramir?" she asked. Her son nodded. "Do you remember what I told you about that story?"

He nodded again. "You said that sometimes we can't have what we want, even if we want it more than anything else in the world."

"That's right, my love," she said quietly. "I want nothing more in the world to stay here, with you, and Boromir, and with your Father…I love you all so well! But, the choice has not been given me to stay. I'm so sorry, love."

"I don't want you to go either, Mother," Boromir said, burying his head in her shoulder.

"I know love. I know." She pressed her eyes closed to fight the tears. "I have one thing to ask of you both," she said, pulling them in as tightly as her weak arms would allow.

"Anything, Mother," Boromir said steadily, though there were tears in his eyes. "I need you to be strong," she said. "And I need you to depend on and love each other, always. I need to know that my boys will take care of each other."

"I promise, mama," Boromir said.

"So do I," Faramir agreed.

A weary smile crossed over her pained face. "I will miss you so," she said, pulling them tight again. "You, Boromir…you are already so dependable, and strong, that I do not fear what shall come for you. And you, my Faramir," she said, turning her head to him. "My wise little man. Always follow your heart, love; it will never lead you astray." She relaxed her grip a little as she no longer felt able to hold it. "I have every faith in you, both of you. And I love you. Always."

"I love you too, mother," both boys chorused in unison, clinging to her with trembling hands, tears falling from Faramir's eyes and firmly contained in Boromir's. She held them for a long moment, allowing Faramir to cry, and giving Boromir the comfort he needed.

"Do not be afraid," she told them. "But be strong, and never fear the darkness."

They both nodded as there was a knock on the door, and she tightened her grip even as Denethor moved to open it, admitting the Warden. Finduilas saw who it was and, mustering all her courage, forced herself to release her sons. "My boys," she said, kissing each of them as she forced the tears from her eyes. "I have to see the Warden now, loves, but I promise you can come back in the morning to see me, all right?"

Boromir nodded, fighting away the tears even as he reached for Faramir. Taking his younger brother's hand, he led him from the room, even as Denethor and the Warden came forward towards the bed and Finduilas finally allowed the tears to flow.

Crossing the room, Denethor reached out and, almost as though he forgot the warden was present, reached out to hold his wife tightly to him. "Oh, Denethor," she cried softly. "I don't want to let them go, ever," she sobbed quietly. "I don't want to let you go."

Denethor felt his throat constrict, and he pulled away from her just enough to turn to the Warden. "Please wait outside," he ordered, his tone harsh, and the Warden bowed and quickly did as ordered. Without watching him go, Denethor took his wife in his arms, climbing onto the bed to pull her closer as she wept into his shoulder. He couldn't say anything, his stomach was in knots in his throat and his heart pounded as he silently begged for the ability to make her well, to save her, to keep her by his side. It came down to one simple, painful fact.

He couldn't.

For a man who had always been able to do exactly as he wished, whose control over all was firm and masterful, it was a crushing blow. For the first time, when it truly mattered beyond anything else, he was powerless. He buried his face in her shoulder, wanting to beg her not to leave him, to rage against the forces that slowly pulled him away from her, but he didn't. Instead, he held her tight, focused his own tears into a deathly calm that he didn't feel in his heart, and remained silent, watching and waiting.

After a long time, her tears ceased as she fell into sleep, her illness and exhaustion getting the better of her. Denethor did not let go, holding her tightly, hoarding the moments that had grown ever fewer, made more and more precious by their limited nature.

It was early when he woke, feeling a movement in his arms. Startled he had fallen asleep, he sat straight up in bed and fumbled for the candle by the side of the bed. "Denethor…" his wife whispered, the power and musicality of her once rich voice gone.

He turned to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Finduilas?" he said, his heartbeat pounding with fear in his chest.

"Is it yet dawn?" she asked. Rising to his feet, he crossed the room and threw open the doors, bringing in the rich sent of the roses of Dol Amroth that had, as he had predicted on his wedding night, spread throughout the small garden.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "It's just slightly past it."

A gentle sigh and her weak voice came again. "Can you see the sunrise today?"

He looked to the East, where the dark clouds of Mordor obscured everything, even the sun. He didn't know what made him say it, but when he spoke he said, "Yes, beloved. You can see it."

"Is it beautiful?" she asked.

"Yes, dearest, it is."

"Good…" she whispered. He studied the darkness for a moment, then turned back to the bed, crossing the room and sitting down by her side again. His wife's breathing was labored, hitching with every breath, and her eyes showed the shadow of pain that had taken her for its own. "Denethor…" she said quietly.

"Yes, beloved?"

"Remember your promise…" she said. Denethor felt tears coming to his eyes as he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to her own, throwing all the love and despair he felt into the kiss. "I…love…you," she told him, and for a moment, her beautiful smile crossed her face again, one last time.

"I love you too," he choked out, his hand taking hers in his. "Finduilas…" he started to beg, but with one last little smile, her eyes fell closed. "My love, no…" he said quietly, squeezing her hand in his own. "Please…"

There was no answer. For a moment, a shadow of pain flared on every beautiful, pale feature, yet soon it faded, replaced by an unmarred peace. In shock, he stared at her, his voice failing him, as the terrible stillness crept its way through the rest of her body and, with a little sigh, she exhaled one last time. "Finduilas…" he said quietly. "Finduilas…" He reached out to touch her face, trying to force himself to think this was a dream, that he would wake up and she would be laughing at him for being so foolish. But he knew, beyond a doubt, that it was truth. "My love, no…" He stared at her, trembling with the shock of it, though it had been expected, and tried to reconcile himself with the truth even as his heart recoiled. "No…" he said weakly, one last time, shocked beyond the point of tears, but she did not respond as he silently begged her to do. Devastated, he rose to his feet, staggering backwards towards the door, ordering the guard there to get the warden. As the man sprinted off, Denethor moved back to the bed, collapsing into the chair at Finduilas' side, taking her still hand in his own, begging for a miracle, though he knew none would come.

He thought back to those beautiful days, that nearly endless summer by the ocean, saw her beautiful smiling face the night it had been they had met, on their wedding night, the first time he saw her with Boromir in her arms…he felt again her arms around him, heard her first whispered words of love punctuated by the cries of the gulls, and realized truly the horrible, utter silence in their bedroom.

It was over.

Author's note: It took a long time, but I've finally finished. I hope you like this last section. I'm pondering starting another story on this topic about what happens afterwards, but I don't know if I'll have the…well, courage I guess. I love Denethor as he was, and I really don't think I want to spend time with the man he becomes. I hate him for changing, even as I understand it now. There are some holes, I think in the story, namely dealing with Elatan and the Corsairs, but as this is a story of Finduilas and Denethor it was not the place to discuss it. If you really awnt to know the details of it (or think I'm crap for leaving the true story behind that out) let me know. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this monster sucker. I admit, it feels good to have it done.

Thank you so much for reading, and for bearing with me through the long delay. If you have time, and the desire, please review.

Cheers,

Nat