The Madness of Denethor
"My son!" the steward's eyes grew wide at the figure on the stretcher before him. "Oh, my son!"
Faramir has left me, his mind blared out. You have not treated him well enough. It is your fault. You have always favored Boromir to your younger son, and now, both have left you.
As he stumbled forward on the silent Street to go to the still figure on the cot, his eyes glanced off of the edge of the pinnacle, and he saw darkness.
Abandoning Faramir, he loped forward and saw the mirror image of his greatest fear. "I have seen this," he heard himself whisper. "I have seen this." And he had. The Palantir, one of the seven seeing stones had shown him this as he studied and gazed abroad in his chambers.
Hundreds of thousands of Orcs stood ready and positioned in front of the White City, like a mass of black ants. Thousands of arrows pointed at the soldiers on the walls, and still, the number was growing. Trolls, as tall as small trees, and many times as thick, swung evil looking mallets left and right, their fell voices echoing in the lightless day. Many more pushed large towers, filled with Orcs, ever approaching the walls of Minas Tirith.
The feat that had kindled in Denethor's heart when he saw this in the seeing stone now burst into flame and consumed him as he saw this in front of his eyes. Gripping his chest, he knew that he could hold this land together no more.
"My sons are dead!" he cried to the heavens above. "What more do you want of me? The line of stewards is broken! Rohan has abandoned us! Théoden has betrayed me!" Clenching a fist, he commanded the men behind him. "Tell you men to abandon their posts and flee for their lives. Go! Fly!"
The men stared in horror at their crazed lord, and did not make a move.
A punishing blow suddenly rained down from above, causing the steward to lose his already swaying stance. Another landed on his back, and he saw the snow white robes of Gandalf, who seemed to have magically appeared.
"Ignore that command!" the wizard commanded the gaping men, who were still supporting the stretcher, where the Captain was still lying. The wounded man gave a moan that was unheard by the steward. "Encourage your men! Tell them to hold their places! All able-bodied men to the wall!" Gandalf called, also ignoring Faramir.
The steward snarled and grabbed a fistful of Gandalf's robes. "Who are you to command me!" His face was distorted into a mask of fury. "Let my son alone!"
The wizard shook his head, but knew where he must be. "To the walls!" he called, and led the men that were not bearing Faramir's body down to the walls. "Go! Go!"
Then, suddenly, in front of the steward's eyes, he saw a bright burst of flame. He rubbed his eyes, but the flame would not go away, but stayed and tore at the beauty of the fountain and the tree. The vision of the Palantir came to his mind.
"Already burning," Denethor whispered, realizing this. "Already burning! But I shall not let the fires of Mordor consume me or my son!" He came to his feet and lumbered madly toward Faramir's still body. "Dead! Dead!" he anguished. "My son is dead!"
"No!" a small hand beat at his back, and a high voice squeaked incomprehensible words. Tears stung the steward's eyes, blurring the image of his son in front of him. He had just died, and the handsome looks that he was gifted with in life had not yet left him in death.
The small thing on his back kept beating him, and with a cry of rage, Denethor threw the hampering thing off of his back. Why could they not let him alone? He just wanted to be with his son. And if Faramir had already departed, then he would join him in the land of the dead.
"Bring wood and oil," he said hoarsely. "We go to the House of the Dead."
"No!" Pippin screamed at the receding figure of the steward, realizing what the steward wanted to do. "He's not dead! He needs medicine!"
However, the steward was wallowing too much in his own grief to hear the hobbit. The men in his service dared not disobey, and followed the steward's trailing black, velvet robes to the House of the Dead.
Boromir has left you. Now Faramir is gone as well, the steward thought over and over again. Your sons hate you. You must make it up to them. Join them now and apologize.
With reverence, he bowed before entering the House of the Dead, and pushed open the doors, letting the dry, still air rush at his face. He did not bow as he passed each of the tombs as he normally would, and he hoped that his ancestors understood. He would be joining them soon, and he did not want to delay that moment. He stopped at an empty table in the middle of the room, designated for the next steward to join this house.
"Yes, I am almost with you, Father, Boromir, Faramir," he whispered. He closed his eyes, and more tears trickled down his face. "Lay the wood down," he commanded his men, and turned back to his son, who had been set down on the ground, and stroked his cheek. "My son," he whispered, listening to the welcoming sounds of the stacks of wood being laid down.
"My sons," he said again, stroking Faramir's hair. "My sons…" It will not be long before I join you, he told him. It will not be long. As his hand touched his forehead, he felt that his son's skin was warm, indeed, almost feverish. Just passed into death, more tears rolled down his cheeks as he felt the heat radiate from his son. And so young. Both of them… so young.
"The house of his spirit crumbles," the steward murmured. "He is burning. Already burning!"
"No!" a sharp voice came, close to his ear, jarring the mournful dirge that Denethor was singing in his head. The steward wanted to scream. Why will no one leave me to my fate!
"No! He's not dead! He's not dead!" the voice came again.
The steward ignored this, and stood, motioning to his men to put his son upon the pile of wood. I must be strong for my sons, he told himself. I must be strong and what I did not do for them in life, I will do for them in death.
The men, grim and silent, set the body of their Captain upon the pile of wood, and Denethor watched, his son seemingly still alive. His features were still so rosy that he expected him to move at any moment. "He's not dead!" the voice came again, and the steward looked down.
For a second, he did not register what he saw, but then, he snarled and cast his hands up at the heavens. "You!" he pointed accusingly at the hobbit, who was trying with all his might to remove the stacks of wood from Faramir's body. "You! Leave my son in peace! He is dead! Let him rest! Let him rest, for he has never had a moment's peace in life!"
The hobbit continued to scream at the steward, but he could hear nothing. He would not hear anything that would desecrate this funeral for him and his son. "Hear now, Peregrin son of Paladin," the steward tried his best to remain calm, but picked the hobbit up by the front of his cloak. "I release you from my service!" He began to march towards the door of the House of the Dead, passing his ancestors again. "Go now and die in what way seems best for you!"
He threw the hobbit unceremoniously to the ground, still grinding his teeth with frustration and closed the door behind him, determined not to have any more interruptions. Turning back to his men, he breathed in harshly and commanded, "Pour oil on the wood."
Faramir's body was soon drenched in the scented oils and Denethor was eager to follow.
Taking a gourd filled with oil, the stewards stepped onto the pile of wood, next to his son. I am doing this for you, Faramir. I am doing this for you, he told the spirit of his dead son. With that, he laughed and poured the oil over his head, drinking in the glory of dying, but not in the fires of Sauron.
The irony of it was so hilarious, he had to laugh again. We shall die, Sauron, he sneered at the Dark Lord, the Great Eye appearing before him. But not by your will. My life is mine to take, and you shall have nothing to do with it!
"Set a fire in our flesh!" he intoned, and stood, ready, sneering at the ineptitude of the Dark Lord. His men were too afraid to disobey and approached with torches, ready to send him on his way.
"NO!"
A great whinnying of a horse and the loud BANG of the double doors to the House of the Dead rang out and awoke the steward from his pre-death reverie. "Stay this madness!" a resonating voice bellowed, and Denethor whipped his head around to see this commotion.
"You--!" he cried in rage. How could this wizard interrupt something as sacred as the bonding of the death of Father and Son? Enraged, he snatched a torch from one of his men and threw it into the wood.
He was determined not to give in to this meddling wizard, as he looked hard into the beautiful face of his dead son, as the flames rose up around them. My son, he thought, smiling.
Then suddenly, he was falling… falling….
He hit the ground with a thud and groaned at his bruised elbows. Something had knocked him hard in the chest out of the flaming pyre, away from his son! His son! As his vision cleared, he saw that the hobbit had grabbed his son and pushed him out from the pile of burning wood. He was on the ground now, and the hobbit was busily trying to put out the flames in his cloak.
I will die with my son! I will not have him taken!
"YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY SON FROM ME!" Denethor cried in anguish. "ALL I ASK IS TO DIE IN PEACE WITH MY SON! CAN YOU NOT GRANT ME THAT!" He leaped into the flames, ready to be by his son's side in life or death. And now, if he could not die with his son, he could at least die near him.
"MY LIFE IS MINE, SAURON!" he screamed in glee, taunting the Dark Lord. "Mine and no others! My sons shall pass with me!" With that, he looked in triumph at the hobbit, who was still next to Faramir, looking up at the steward with horror. "My son," he whispered for the last time, and thought he saw his eyes open. "I am coming."
He felt a pleasant warmth, and before his eyes, he saw Boromir and Faramir, laughing and embracing in reunion. They beckoned to him to go with them. "Wait for me, my sons!" he murmured, and surged forward, ready to hold both his sons in his arms again, as when they were babes. "Wait for me!"
He ran, blind to all obstacles, stumbling at times like a madman, as his sons drew closer to him. "Come to me, my sons!" he said, and kept running.
He lost his foothold somewhere along this path lined with roses, and he remembered falling. But he was not afraid, for he knew that his sons would be there to greet him at the end of the road. He could see Boromir's always smiling face again, and Faramir's noble features, always bent into a sober expression.
Faramir… Faramir…
A sickening smack surrounded him, and a hot surge of pain enveloped his body.
With his last breath, he murmured his last realization, "Faramir, I love you. Faramir… my son…"
The End
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