Disclaimer: The following parody is based on characters and situations created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I own nothing but the plot. I am making no money from this.

Before this goes any further, I would like to make clear that I intend no malice with this parody. I just like to make fun of stuff.

A Fortuitous Event


Faramir slumped angrily in his chair. Why did his father have to be so unreasonable? Why did he did he suddenly regard his own son a traitor? Of course, those had not been his exact words, but his meaning had been all too clear. Faramir might be more partial to the counsel of Mithrandir than that of Denethor, but really, how did refusing to pass the butter make him disloyal to his nation? That he could not grasp.

Their latest clash had been only one of many incidents over the past few days. Faramir had let his father's nasty comments slide until now, understanding that the loss of Boromir had hit Denethor hard. But this time he had gone too far, and Faramir would no longer tolerate it. He had demonstrated his point by abruptly getting up and leaving -- in a huff. That would show him.

Alas, it turned out that he had showed Denethor too well, for just as he was becoming immersed in the plot of one of his favourite books, he received a summons, delivered by the halfling, Peregrin Took. Denethor commanded his presence -- immediately. Groaning inwardly, Faramir stood and followed Pippin to his father.

Denethor, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, sat gloomily in his black, unadorned Steward's chair. He watched Faramir and Pippin closely as they entered, his dark, fathomless eyes glinting strangely in their sockets. In his hand was not the rod of hisstewardship, and in his lap was not the cloven-through horn of Boromir. Both items appeared to have been put aside so that the Steward could hold instead a medium sized pewter bucket.

Faramir opened his mouth to address this issue, but Denethor spoke first, dismissing the halfling, before turning to his youngest.

'My son, I must apologise for my recent conduct. I have not been myself, I am not well.'

'Perhaps you should visit the Houses of Healing, Father,' Faramir suggested, beginning to feel concerned for his sire's well being, this feeling intensifying when his nose detected the reason behind Denethor's bucket.

'Nay, that would not do. For no healer in all Middle-Earth could relieve me of my current condition.'

Faramir gulped. 'You're not -- dying, are you?' he asked, his voice faltering.

Denethor smiled grimly. 'That remains to be seen. But I fear this ailment could well be a fate worse than death.'

Faramir blinked. He didn't like where this conversation was going. It couldn't be … not his own father … Please, please, no …

'You mean--' he choked out, 'you're--'

'Yes, my son, I am afflicted with the dreaded malady known as Mpreg.'

Faramir's heart sank, his worst fears confirmed. 'Mpreg?' he cried. 'Nay! Say 'tis not so!'

Denethor said nothing, but his silence spoke more than a thousand words.

'Oh, Father!' cried Faramir. 'Have the Valar no mercy? How it pains me that this fate has befallen you! What have you ever done to reap such misfortune?' Sobbing, he threw himself at Denethor's feet, ashamed that he had ever thought ill of his father, when all along the poor man had been battling this fell illness. Mpreg was the most feared disease in all the land, second only to the Dark Lord Sauron himself in the terror it caused. Some said it was born of the foul crafts of Morgoth, others maintained it was punishment for past wrongs. Only orcs seemed immune to its horror, for they loved all that was unholy and profane, and, there being no female orcs, they had to reproduce somehow…

'I know not why fate has dealt me such a cruel blow,' Denethor said slowly, taking Faramir's hand in his own. 'But I will endure it, as I have many other catastrophes. Be brave for me, Faramir. And know that, even when plagued with mood swings, sore feet, and fits of irrationality, your father still loves you as he has always done.'

Lifting his eyes to Denethor's, Faramir nodded in solemn agreement. 'I shall remember it, Father.' There was a pause, before he sighed. 'You look tired. Perhaps it would be best if you retired to your chambers. I know it is yet only midday, but I daresay you will need all the rest you can get in the coming months. Come, I can take over your duties for today.' He helped the ailing Steward to his feet, before leading him out of the hall. 'Here, let me take that bucket for you.'

'Ah, I am fortunate indeed to have such a wonderful son, who would so ease my sufferings in this time of crisis,' said Denethor, and Faramir smiled at his praise.

And so they went to the Steward's chambers, father and son, both inwardly cringing at thought of what was to come, though each facing it with grim determination, and the knowledge that, one day, it would all be over.