Even before he entered the room, Denethor figured out what she wanted his help with. He could hear it on the stairs and outside in the corridor – it was Boromir. The boy was kicking and screaming, punching his mother with his fists. He was too old to do that now, thought Denethor. He didn't know his own strength. He was hurting her.
Denethor rushed to the rescue. He gave the boy a resounding slap on the face. He had never hit him so hard before. Boromir recoiled in terror and pain and ran precipitately from the room.
That took care of Boromir. But now he had Boromir's mother to deal with.
"It had to be done," he said in his own defence. "Your tender talk is most ineffectual. That was a disgusting display of temper…"
"That was a disgusting display of temper on your part," she said, coldly.
His eyes flashed. "I'll show you a disgusting display of my temper…"
"I've got to go find him," she said, still quietly. "You hurt Boromir. You had no right to hit the child so hard. You had no right to hit him at all." And she was gone.
Denethor sank down onto a long, low couch. Again. He had done the wrong thing again. When would he ever learn to stop himself before he hurt his wife or his son in some fresh, new way?
A baby gurgled in the cradle beside him. He had two sons now. He stood up and looked down at the baby, smilingly holding his finger out to him. The baby took it in his little fist - and was he smiling back? It certainly seemed as if he was.
"Faramir," said Denethor, "my baby… I haven't done anything to hurt you yet. And I pray, oh how I pray, that I never will…"
Hearing a sound behind him, Denethor turned to see a sullen-faced boy at the door.
Boromir had come in search of his mother and obviously wasn't too happy to have found his father instead. Denethor wasn't too pleased to see his older son, either. When he was dreaming of the perfect relationship he hoped to have with his second son, it was not very pleasant to have evidence of his prior mistakes thrust in his face.
Perhaps Boromir's presence here was a sign. A sign from the Valar that he would never be the kind of father he wanted to be. The powers that be were mocking him. 'Look,' they seemed to say. 'Look at the mess you've made the first time around. Your older son doesn't talk to you at all – one might even say that he hates you. So how do you hope to do better with your younger one?'
Denethor swallowed his anger and his guilt and spoke to the boy pleasantly enough. "I've never seen you act like that before… is something the matter, Boromir? Is something worrying you?"
Boromir looked at him with suspicion. Could he risk telling his father what was bothering him? Would his father understand or fly into a rage? Boromir remained silent.
Denethor sat down and looked at his son. "I hurt you… I'm sorry…"
Boromir fingered his bruised cheek and his eyes filled with tears. Not wanting his father to see this sign of weakness, he left the room, before his father could speak further. In his haste, he slammed the door without meaning to. Denethor stared angrily at the door. He hated it when the boy slammed the door in a fit of temper like that.
A loud wail rose from the cradle. Faramir had been frightened by the sound of the door. Denethor walked to the cradle again and looked down at its occupant, who let out another wail. "You took the words out of my mouth," he said to Faramir as he gently picked him up and rocked him in his arms.