A/N: I was feeling vindictive when I started this chapter, and I felt like keeping everyone waiting for longer! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!
Thanks to everybody who reviewed! Keep up the great support, and thanks for waiting!! I'm so sorry that it took this long, and I promise that the next chapter, which will go back to the action, will not take this long. I had a bunch of work, and then went to China, and it's just been hectic!
Chapter 43: Apologetic visions
The night deepened in Gondor, but up in the White Tower of Ecthelion, Denethor II was still awake and about. He was sweating profusely, his head throbbing. The now covered glass ball was in front of him. The Dark Lord had horrified him that night, though he refused to show any weakness. He had shown him terrible things, things he did not wish to believe. He had seen the White Tree burning; his people slain one by one; his sons falling; things the Dark Lord tormented him with many a time. Then the palantir had shown something else; something he did not expect, or recognize, at first. The image was not clear, but he thought he could make out Meduseld, as he remembered seeing it years ago. The people seemed tentative, sorrow engraved on their faces. He didn't understand why he was seeing this; what did he care about Rohan? Then men appeared out of the heavy wooden doors, carrying a bier. He could not see who was upon it, but he did see both Theoden and his son walking behind it, evidently mourning. Then the bier was turned towards him, and he almost dropped the palantir. The eyes of his little sparrow were closed, her face ashen and wan, her black hair arranged neatly, dressed in her favorite gown. He couldn't watch any longer, he threw the cloth over the hateful glass, and collapsed into his chair, panting and sweating, refusing to believe what he had seen. Feeling trapped, he flung the door open, determined to step out and enjoy the night air.
It could not be. She couldn't be. It was impossible. He would not believe it. She couldn't be dead. The mere mention of the word sent shivers up his spine, and he could not allow himself to even think it. He thought back to a time more than a score of years ago, when his Finduilas left him, and even before that, Elentari's mother—Ariethel. They could not all be gone. He would not believe it; not until the Riders came carrying her body with them would he believe it. His sons would be devastated to hear the news. Faramir. He thought of his younger son. He would never forgive him for sending her away, marrying her to Theodred, and if she had perished bearing his child, he couldn't even think of what Faramir would do. No. It was impossible. It was just a fantasy conjured by the Dark Lord to frighten him, to throw him off guard. Theoden would have dispatched a rider with the news if it were really true. No. He would not believe it.
"Father?" a whisper ventured.
Denethor wheeled around, to find his younger son sitting a few yards away from him, shivering in the cold. The apprehensive look upon Faramir's look dissolved as he saw Denethor's eyes soften.
"What's wrong Father?" he questioned.
"Wrong?" Denethor feigned a laugh, "Must there be something wrong, my son?"
Hearing this unusual endearment, Faramir's frown deepened, but he did not wish to say anything directly, "You are not usually out at this hour."
"And you are?" the Steward challenged.
His son looked down, and did not answer. Denethor softened a bit, and probed gently, "Can you not sleep?"
He shook his head, still a bit wary of his father's sudden concern. Denethor went on, with a small chuckle, "I remember when you were merely a toddler. Your mother used to tell me of your nightmares over a good meal. She would sing until your little eyelids closed again, and dream took you."
"I dream of her sometimes. Mother, I mean, though I hardly remember her," he confided, "More often I dream of— He did not finish the sentence, but anyone could guess what he wanted to say, not to mention the shrewd Steward.
But Denethor did not take this obvious opportunity to snide his son, "I dream of them as well, sometimes. I hear them singing together. Such a shame they did not really get the chance to," he chuckled again, "I remember your mother singing songs about letters and numbers with the two of you. Elentari had such a beautiful voice, even then."
"Do you miss her?" Faramir ventured.
"Of course." Faramir was not sure if he was speaking of Finduilas or Elentari. There was a misty veil over his eyes, as he was lost in the past, but Faramir could detect a trace of something ominous in those eyes that he could not place. It was not really part of the Steward, not the usual, cynical man who seemed to live just to spite people.
"It is miserable without her," Faramir murmured, almost to himself.
Denethor turned from his reverie to look at his son, and for the first time, seemed to see the loneliness etched in his young face. "Loneliness can be hard to cope with," he uttered.
"It's so quiet," Faramir whispered, "without her."
"I shouldn't have agreed," Denethor said so softly that Faramir thought he had misheard him. But looking into his father's eyes, he saw the regret, "I tore Elentari away from everything she loved, and all those who loved her."
"Theodred loves her," Faramir murmured, almost against his will. After all his rage at his father, he felt pity for the withered old man who sat beside him now, confessing his sins.
"Love given is sometimes not returned," Denethor replied, sounding more like the clever Steward.
"Boromir reports that she is happy there," it cost him so much to say that, but he forced the words out.
"I hope so," Denethor thought back to the vision, which he hurriedly tried to dismiss from his mind.
A cold gust of wind blew over, as if to emphasize the ominous image in Denethor's mind, and he shivered despite his warm cloak. His son noticed, and rose to leave, "Perhaps we should retire now, and try to get some rest before night leaves us. Goodnight Father." He began to walk away.
"Faramir," his father cried out.
"Yes Father?" he turned to face him.
Denethor could not get the words out, and merely looked at his son, until Faramir turned once more to walk away. Yet before he entered the door leading to his hallway, he heard what he thought was his father's voice call out in a whisper, "I'm sorry, my son. I'm sorry."
A/N: I felt we needed a short interlude to what was happening in Gondor, and a rest from the heavy suspense. Please review!