After a pleasant peaceful morning spent relaxing alone in his father's room, Denethor decided that it was time to go back to his family once more. And looking at Finduilas, all his worries immediately flooded back into his mind.

"Why do you look so tired, Finduilas? Are you unwell, my love?"

"No, it's Boromir. Boromir is unwell… Denethor, if I don't wake up in the morning with you beside me, if I don't wake up in your arms, my whole day goes wrong…"

Denethor smiled. "Am I to understand that Boromir fell ill because you didn't wake up in my arms? I never knew a lady to be so illogical…"

"Sometimes, it all becomes too much for me," she said. "Sometimes I need to take a break from being worried…"

"Then you must," he said, gently. "Finduilas do you remember how you used to throw away your heavy woman's robes, and run on the beaches of Dol Amroth in your brother's tunic and breeches?"

"I do…"

"And before the children were born, we would run together up the slopes of Mindolluin to places fresh and green…"

"Those were good days, Denethor…"

Denethor was rummaging among his clothes, looking for his softest, most comfortable tunic.

"Here you are," he said. "Faramir is with Ioreth, isn't he? I'll take care of Boromir. Why don't you forget about us for a while and run up the slopes of Mindolluin…"

She changed into his clothes and looked even more beautiful in them than she had looked in her woman's robes.

"Denethor," she said, and burst out laughing. "We have been married for so many years now, and still you look at me like a schoolboy in love…"

"Am I not allowed to admire my beautiful wife?"

"Well, if you look at me like that, I won't be able to leave you and go away…"

"Don't, then…"

"Ah, but I must…"

"Well, goodbye, then, and don't rush back, Finduilas. Take your time…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Denethor walked to Boromir's room, feeling somewhat nervous. His sullen son was not the easiest person to get on with even when he was well, and now that he was ill…

He opened the door quietly and looked in. Fortunately, the child was asleep.

Denethor sat down beside the sleeping child and stroked his forehead so gently that that Boromir thought it was his mother beside him. A look of content spread over his face. "Mummy," he murmured. And then he opened his eyes and the contented look faded away in an instant.

"I'm sorry," said Denethor apologetically, "you see, mummy had to go out for a little while, so I'm going to be with you this afternoon."

Denethor had expected a tantrum, or at the very least a sullen glare, but the response he actually got was far worse. The child began to cry, quietly. A simple expression of sheer misery. Boromir was ill. He'd wanted mummy. And he'd got father instead.

There was no point in taking offence. He had to comfort his son. Denethor gently lifted Boromir onto his lap, placed the child's head on his shoulder and held him close. Boromir clung to his father, feeling rather confused. Was this the same person who had hit him as if he hated him, just yesterday, or was it the day before?

With the directness of a child, he asked his father a straight question. "Father, do you love me or hate me? I don't understand…"

Denethor decided that in the present situation, a lie would be the most appropriate response. "I love you, Boromir," he said. But was it a lie? He didn't really hate Boromir. He was just hurt. Hurt that the child did not respond to him the way he did to Finduilas. And it genuinely worried him to see his son cry in this way… he could see that it was not just that Boromir was ill and wanted his mother.

Of late he had noticed that Boromir had seemed miserable, irritable and confused – the child's behaviour had been much more objectionable than usual. He'd tried asking his wife about it, but Finduilas always refused to admit that her son was in any way annoying. Although he knew that he was not Boromir's favourite parent, he wondered if there was anything he could do to help…

"Boromir…"

"Yes, father?"

"Is something wrong, Boromir? Is something worrying you, my child?"

"No, father."

Denethor sighed. After all, what could he expect? He was the last person that Boromir would talk to. But he wanted the child to talk to someone.

"Would you tell mummy about it, Boromir? Or Grandfather?"

"What?"

"About this thing that's worrying you?"

"There isn't anything, father…"

The child was crying again. 'I must be the most inept parent alive,' thought Denethor. He hadn't meant to make him cry – he'd only been trying to help. He shouldn't have cross-questioned the child like that. Not knowing what to say, he picked Boromir up in his strong arms and walked about the room, holding the little form, racked with huge sobs, in a tender, comforting grip.

"Mummy says I'm too big to be carried."

"Well, father says you're still small enough."

Ha! Here was something he could do for Boromir that Finduilas couldn't.

"Father…"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes I can't tell mummy things…"

"Why, Boromir?"

"Because mummy's so good, you can't tell her about something bad you're thinking…"

Denethor understood perfectly what the child meant. He sometimes found it difficult to talk to Finduilas, himself. She was so straight, so clean, that he often felt ashamed to pour out his thoughts to her. But the door to Boromir's thoughts had opened, just a crack. Denethor carefully tried to pry it open a little wider.

"Boromir… you know, father isn't so good. Whatever you're thinking about, you can be sure I've thought something worse."

The door opened wide…

"Father… I hate Faramir."

Boromir cowered in his father's arms as if waiting for his father to strike him.

"You hate Faramir?"

"I… I want mummy to myself…father, you don't understand…"

But Boromir's father did understand. He had had his wife to himself until Boromir had been born, and he had always grudged the child all the time and attention that Finduilas had given him. Denethor held his son so tightly that he almost suffocated him.

"Is that all my child? I understand, Boromir, I really do understand…"

"Father, now it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"What have you thought that was worse than that?

He could think of plenty of answers to that. But there wasn't a single one appropriate enough to share with Boromir.

"Well, er…"

Unless he gave the child some sort of an answer, he'd be letting him down. Perhaps a watered down version of the truth would do…

"Boromir, I … er… used to want your mummy to myself, too. Er… when you were born."

Used to? He still did.

"Not any more, of course," he added, as his son gave him a shocked, hurt stare.

What was he doing? This was most definitely the wrong thing to say to the child. But strangely enough, Boromir's shocked look had passed. He even seemed to understand.

"You mean, like I hate Faramir?"

"Something like that. But that was long ago. I don't think of you like that any more…"

I swear I don't. I swear I don't. Forgive me, Boromir.

Boromir wriggled out of his father's arms and padded about the floor thoughtfully. Denethor sat down wearily on his son's bed. After all the nasty, jealous things he'd thought about his son, had he any right to expect his son to love him? And yet he wanted the child's love, so much… But he had no right to ask for it.

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, Boromir. I'm just a little tired..."

"Why don't you go to your room and go to sleep, father?"

Faramir and Ioreth would be back by now. "Well, you see, Faramir's in my room and he keeps screaming all the time. Sometimes, Boromir, I want to scream, too."

Why was he telling the child all this? Maybe it was because he had finally found someone understanding to talk to. Someone who wasn't good all the time, like Finduilas. Someone as offensive as himself. His own son.

"Would you like to rest with me, father? In my bed? Would that help?"

"It would help a lot. Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir's bed was surprisingly comfortable.

"Father?"

"Mmmmm?"

"You don't hate me any more, do you?"

"Of course not!"

This time, Denethor really meant it. Boromir was silent for a while. Then…

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"After I told you my secret, I'm not angry with Faramir any more."

"I'm so glad to hear that, Boromir."

He really was. He wanted his sons to grow up as friends…

"Boromir, when he grows up, he's going to be your best friend… he's going to learn everything from you… and he's going to love you so much…"

Boromir considered this.

"You mean, like you hated me at first and then when I grew up, I started to be friends with you…"

What? Had he heard his son right? There was nothing like a direct question. The words that Boromir had used would serve for him, too.

"Boromir, do you … er… love me or hate me?"

"I hate you, father," chuckled the child.

Denethor felt two small arms creep around his neck.

"Father," said Boromir, contentedly.

Denethor smiled. "That's me."