Denethor looked up at his father, feeling a mixture of relief and shame. His father's very presence was comforting to him. And yet, he wished that Lord Ecthelion, who had never appeared to have a good opinion of him, had not entered the room at this particular moment, to find his son in a pathetic state of depression and despair. This certainly would not improve his father's opinion of him.
Denethor forced himself to stand up and tried to look as nonchalant and composed as he could. "I'm all right, now," he said.
He longed to pour out all his fears and worries to his father, who stood beside him, a tall, reassuring presence, resplendent in shining armour, his hand holding his son's clenched fist in a comforting grip. But what would his father think of him? His father had in the past made no secret of the fact that he expected his son to be brave and valiant. And at the present moment Denethor felt that he had never been further from what his father wanted him to be. He felt weak and ill, and to his horror, he felt his eyes filling with tears of humiliation. For a wild moment, he considered doing what Boromir would have done under similar circumstances – running out of the room. But Lord Ecthelion had his hand in a firm grip and there was no escape. Next time, he would try that on Boromir – take hold of his hand before he could run away. Denethor smiled to himself.
Looking at his son, Lord Ecthelion was relieved to see something other than despair on his expressive face. "Of what are you thinking," he asked, wishing to keep his son's mind on whatever positive thought was occupying it now.
"I was thinking of Boromir, father. You know, how he runs away when he doesn't want me to see him in tears…"
"And how often do you reduce him to tears," asked Lord Ecthelion sharply.
"I… I don't know…"
Denethor swore to himself, his eyes filling with tears again. It was just like his father to strike him when he was down. When he was in despair over the enemy's immense power, his father had reminded him of his other great source of despair… his poor relationship with his son.
"So you find it amusing to see a young child in tears?"
"No, no… not at all… Something has been worrying him father. But he refuses to tell me what it is. Whenever I reach out to him, he runs away from me…Father, how do you tell a son that he shouldn't be afraid to reveal a weakness to a loving father…"
"I do not know – I have spent close to thirty years now trying to tell my own son the same thing…"
Denethor walked to a window and stood there, motionless, looking out. "You have no respect for the weak and the inept," he said at last.
"My son, if I respect those who are brave and capable, it does not mean that I would ridicule the weak and inept."
"No, you are much too polite to do that. You would treat them with great courtesy and then laugh at them behind their backs."
Lord Ecthelion noticed that his son's fists were clenched. "Denethor, we are now speaking of our own sons, neither of whom is weak and inept…"
Denethor's response was to crash his fist on the stone window sill.
He turned on his father, his eyes burning with rage. "I know what you think of me. Do not try to hide it. You cannot hope to undo with a few words an impression that took a lifetime to create… I know what you think of me. I know it from the way you look at me; from the way you speak to me; from the way you speak of me…
If you had shown me how to be a good father, I would now know how to be a good father to my own son, but I do not. And I wish I did… how I wish I did...
He looks at me with eyes full of mistrust…he runs away from me when I reach out to him… I hate him, father. I hate him as much as I hate you."
Lord Ecthelion's eyes blazed, too.
"Denethor, as you have spent your life responding with hatred to your father's love, you fully deserve to have a son who does the same to you."
Lord Ecthelion walked out of the room. Denethor heard his firm footsteps descending the stairs of the tower as he restlessly paced about the room again alone.