Denethor looked around him in suppressed excitement. He stood in the room at the top of the Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. The windows were thrown open – there was blue sky, pure air all around him. The cool wind stung at his cheeks. He felt exhilarated, alive.

He looked down at the Palantir of Anarion. Its surface was black, opaque as polished marble…but as he looked, it began to glow, to transform. Now it was as transparent as crystal, and through it he could see the shining sea … deep blue, flecked with silver in the sunlight.

Denethor drew a deep breath of pure pleasure. This was what he had dreamed of, as he had pored over the ancient tales in the library of Gondor… to cross the vast seas of water and of time to see the people and places that he had read of, with wonder, in the books of lore. He would cross the ages and go back in time to the shores of Cuiviénen and watch the first elves wake under the stars of Elbereth… He would sail Vingilótë westward over the sea with Eärendil…

All of a sudden, Denethor stiffened and looked around him, ill at ease. He had an odd feeling that he was being watched. Watched by a hostile presence… but there was no-one with him in the room at the top of the tower. Denethor shivered slightly, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that had all of a sudden overcome him. There was no-one here, as he could plainly see. And yet…

He could almost hear a voice… It did not speak to him, but seemed almost to be talking to itself, voicing an unknown presence's thoughts as it observed him…

"So this is he… the future Steward of Gondor! A sight guaranteed to fill the hearts of his enemies with fear..."

Denethor could feel a peal of hostile laughter reverberate around the room. He clutched at the marble base of the palantir, trying to steady himself as a wave of terror overcame him for some reason that he could not understand. What was he afraid of? There was no-one here. No-one here at all…

"Just look at him…"

There it was – that voice again…

"Lord Ecthelion's son. An individual more unlike the Steward of Gondor can hardly be imagined… one would expect Lord Ecthelion's son to be tall, handsome, a fine figure of a man… one would expect him to be strong, powerful…but look at him…"

Denethor shrugged it off. This was probably all in his imagination. This was what his father probably thought of him all the time…He was not going to allow himself to be bothered by childish taunts…Denethor laughed out loud.

The voice suddenly took on a menacing tone.

"And now, look at what Lord Ecthelion's pathetic heir will have to stand up to when he is Steward of Gondor…"

The voice paused. Denethor felt his gaze being diverted, pushed violently away from the blue ocean. He grimly fought back, straining to regain control over what he saw in the palantir, struggling to see only what he wished to see…

But a presence with a strength far greater than his own pushed his gaze deep into the land of Mordor. The dark shadow on the distant horizon drew closer and loomed menacingly above him. He could see the dark towers of Barad Dûr and Minas Morgul, fortresses of great strength. He could see troops that far surpassed those of Gondor both in numbers and in strength. He could see strange devices, forged in the depths of fiery mountains, created to destroy walls of stone and gates of steel.

Denethor fought to break free of the iron will that had him in its grip. And the voice began to speak again…

"A foolish dreamer are you… to fill your thoughts with beautiful visions of ages long gone… would you walk the shores of Cuiviénen and sail the oceans with Eärendil, while your enemy is waxing in strength? And will you still be lost in your dreams when he gathers his strength to strike you… oh, he will destroy the white marble walls of the city you love so much… he will burn Minas Tirith to dust and ashes.

Denethor clenched his teeth. His head was reeling, and yet he stood firm. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to stand up to the unseen power that taunted him, ridiculed him, filled him with despair.

"You do not know to whom you speak," he cried out, in a ringing voice that filled the room. "When Denethor is Steward, Gondor will stand tall; a bulwark against the East. And the valour of my people will defend all the Western lands from the Great Shadow…"

In the seeing stone, Denethor saw an eye rimmed with fire, looking at him with a hatred that froze his blood. He felt a surge of power hit him like a fist, between the eyes… he swayed and fell to the floor, cutting his wrist on the stone base of the palantir. His head reeled as he felt the unseen presence smite him again and again with its hostile will.

"Feel my power," the voice thundered, reverberated around the room. "Feel my power and despair…"

Denethor lay sprawled on the ground, struck down by a power that he could neither see nor understand. And still, he fought to resist it. "Despair? When I am Steward, your kingdom will be destroyed. Your kingdom will be…" He broke off. His words sounded hollow even to himself.

He painfully raised himself up and rested his head on the cold stone pillar that supported the palantir. Visions of the great strength of Mordor flooded into his mind, filling it with black despair. Feeling weak, pitiful and utterly humiliated, Denethor clung to base of the palantir, his slender frame racked with painful sobs that he wasn't even aware of. The most terrifying thing about the voice he had heard was that it had spoken the truth.

It was true… Gondor stood against a power far greater than itself. To fight this power would be as futile as crashing one's fist against a stone wall… In his frustration, Denethor hit his fist, already bleeding from its cut, against the stone base of the palantir… crashing it against the stone structure again and again until it throbbed with pain. And still he continued to hit his bruised, bleeding fist on the hard, cold stone, until a strong hand caught it in a firm, yet gentle grip, and a quiet voice bade him to stop.