A huge thank you to those wonderful reviews for the last chapter! I hope that you enjoy this chapter as much, and that you continue to enjoy the story as we go onwards. As ever, please forgive any ridiculous typos in this chapter!

Chapter Ninety-Five: The Revenge of the Steward

Fury burnt in Denethor's gut, its intensity almost unbearable, its heat eating him whole. Never, not even in his darkest nightmares, had he imagined that Boromir could betray him. Boromir – his eldest, his dearest son. The only soul Denethor could count on, the only man in the world who he trusted irrevocably.

But he had – he had listened to the wizards, to the halflings, and he had forsaken his father. He had brought the ragged ranger Aragorn into Denethor's room, ordered Denethor to bow. But Denethor would not bow. He would never bow. All his life, he had been the one to care for the city, and where had this Aragorn been? What right did he, the supposed heir of a line of failed kings, think he had over a city he had visited but once? The rule of Gondor belonged to Denethor, and Denethor alone.

And he deserved it. True, a madness of sorts had taken Denethor, and he had not responded well to the attack on their city, but what did they expect? It was grief, the belief that his sons were dead, and all hope lost, and that could make any man mad. If the pathetic dwarf king Oakenshield could be forgiven for an insanity that almost started a war, Denethor could be forgiven from falling into mourning. As for sending Faramir to Osgiliath, that was not a matter of pride or cruelty – it was the only choice he had.

In letting Frodo go, Faramir had gone knowingly and willingly against both the will of the Steward, and the best interest of his city, and by any man's analysis, that would count as treason. Denethor's hands had been tied. He could hardly give an order that would exonerate Faramir - it was a matter of principal. No ruler that displayed such blatant nepotism could be allowed to rule - of course they could not. And obviously, this was all that he had thought of when he sent Faramir away. He had not been consumed by anger and rage and a loathing that only faded when he saw his son lying on the doorway of death. No matter what Gandalf or Imrahil or his own cursed memories told him

Denethor was a good man.

Yet Boromir could not see the truth in what he had done. Denethor knew the root cause, and he knew it well. This, all of this, was the fault of the wizard. Gandalf had ripped everything from him, had torn away everything that he held dear and made him look like a mind addled fool. He had stolen from Denethor his honour, his position, his sons, and Denethor was no fool. He would not get them back, and he knew it. If Gandalf could turn even Boromir against him, there was no hope that the city or even the guards would get behind him, not without years of careful scheming and planning.

Years that Gondor did not have. The depraved wizard was strutting around as though winning the battle had won them the war, but Denethor knew better. He had seen the destruction that Sauron would wreak upon Gondor, upon this kingdom that was rightfully, truthfully his. He knew the way it would break, one day or another. It was only a matter of time, and Gandalf was as stupid as he was cunning if he did not think every man, woman, and child in the kingdom would not be slaughtered by next year's end.

They may have scraped a victory, but the world of men was doomed, nevertheless.

And Denethor had been cursed to die with nothing – stripped of his Stewardship, scorned by his people, betrayed by his sons – forced to bow to a wild-man who called himself a king, or to wither in a cell designed for the criminally insane.

But Denethor still had his mind, and his wits, and he had his hatred and fury, and now, thanks to Boromir's belief that he was no longer an immediate threat, he had his hands. Some parts of this ending that Gandalf had forged for him could not be escaped, but Denethor, son of Ecthelion would write the end of his own damned story.

And Gandalf would pay.

Now that the crescent moon was high and the cool dark of the deep night was upon them, the guards had gone from Denethor's door. He could see through the small window that the hallway was clear, and he drew from his pocket his labour of the latter half of the day. He grinned. Gandalf may think he had left the 'ailing' steward with no means of escape, but it had not been difficult to wrench out a handful of his own hair, and braid it down into a length of string. It was more slippery than he would have liked, but he was able to create a little noose out of the end, and that was all that mattered.

Wrapping the other end around his finger so it would not fall from his grasp, he lowered it out of the window of his cell, grinning as the loop fell over the bolt on the door. With a hiss of satisfaction, he pulled it tight, and then he pulled the bolt from its sleeve, and he beamed. There was no handle on the inside, so he simply gave the door an experimental push. Nothing. He snarled, but then paused, digging his nails into the side of the door and wedging it open. Pain splintered across his fingertips, but then the heavy door began to ease open, and as soon as he got his hands in the gap it swung open as easily as any other.

A cool smile slipped across his face. Freedom.

You will know what it means, Mithrandir, he thought bitterly. You will know what it means to have those you hold dear ripped away from you. You will know.

It was only at this time of night that the halls were truly quiet in the Houses of Healing, and no one disturbed his search. No one even woke, and on his third try, he found his prey. In a small, quiet room, completely alone and fast asleep, were the two halflings.

One was the swine his guards had failed to kill, peace on his smug little face as he curled against the other, who was a stranger to Denethor. He did not look entirely well - dark smudges beneath his eyes stood out starkly against the pallid colour of his face, and there was a pinch of discomfort on his face. Denethor knew that his name was "Merry", that he had been injured in the battle. That he was weaker, and not a threat.

For a moment, Denethor toyed with taking him first, but common sense prevailed. These little rats, pathetic as they were, were trained in combat, and uninjured as he was, Peregrin Took posed the greater threat. As he gazed down on Pippin's face, he remembered how the brat had challenged him, had raised his sword and told him Boromir would turn on him, and Denethor's fury grew hotter.

Yes. It was right that this one die first.

Carefully, he pulled the blanket beneath the hobbit, drawing him away from his friend without waking him, but even when he reached the edge of the bed, Pippin did not stir. Gentle as a father with a new-born child, Denethor tipped the hobbit into his arms, lowering him quickly onto the floor, and Pippin frowned, his body twisting as his eyes began to open.

And with a surge of satisfaction greater even than his rage, Denethor closed his hands around the hobbit's neck.

Pippin's eyes bulged open in horror and he opened his mouth to scream, but Denethor tightened his grip, grinning as the halfling's cry choked out, and his face contorted in pain and fear. Pippin squirmed and struggled, but Denethor's knees were already pinning down his arms by his sides, and with every frantic, whimpering gasp Pippin choked down, Denethor's heart rose, and hands tightened. He could feel the halfling's windpipe closing beneath his grip, and Pippin threw his feet against the ground, but all the sound he could make was a dull thud, a drum beat to play beneath the pathetic little choking gasps that were growing shorter and shallower with every moment.

Denethor's heart beat fast and hard in his chest as the Pippin's struggled began to grow weaker, and the desperate kicking of his feet faded into feeble little flailing, but as he did, a confused moan drew Denethor's gaze up to the bed. He narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip one final time, until he could not hope to squeeze any tighter.

"Pippin?" mumbled the voice, and Pippin's eyes flew over towards the bed. Even as his fighting grew feeble, the desperation in his eyes was wild and intense, and Denethor wanted to see it.

"No!" he growled, thrusting Pippin against the stone floor. "You look at me. Look at me!"

A weak, whine of a whimper escaped the hobbit's lips as he looked back at Denethor, but it was only for a moment. Slowly, beautifully, his eyes lost focus, and then they rolled back up into his skull, and he stopped kicking. Satisfaction roared within Denethor, and he held his grip firm, even as the other hobbit clawed his way to the edge of the bed, and let out a raw, horror-struck cry.

"Pippin! Help-"

Releasing but a single hand, Denethor struck Merry in the throat, hard, and the yelling was drowned by choking gasps as the injured halfling clutched at his neck.

Just in time for his friend to watch, Pippin's body crumpled limp against the ground, his eyelids fluttering shut as his head tilted back against the ground, and Merry let out a strangled, gasping scream.

"Pippin!"

Denethor rose, relishing the broken, wheezing gasp let out by Pippin as his body responded to the lack of pressure. The halfling's eyes remained closed, and the choking gasps that shook him could not be described as true breaths, and it did not matter that he was not dead already. He would never recover enough to fight back.

"Hush now, halfling," said Denethor, grinning as Merry's horror-struck eyes snapped onto him. "It will be over soon."

Merry's face contorted in fury and he opened his mouth again, but Denethor reached out and crushed the halfling's throat between his hands, and at once Merry's fury melted into fear. He fought fiercely, hitting out with his trembling left arm, tugging at Denethor's hair and clawing at his face with such spirit that Denethor almost felt he deserved to live.

Almost.

He may have been fierce, but Merry was also injured, and weak, and within but a few moments, his arm flopped uselessly to his side, and his eyes began to struggle to keep their focus. Glancing down, Denethor caught sight of blood blooming over his hip, stark against the white of his pyjamas. He wondered what old wound he had reopened, whether Merry had won it in battle, like a man.

He stared deep into the halfling's eyes as the life in them began to grow dim, and he grinned. He could not hear Pippin choking anymore. He could not hear Pippin at all.

"When you're gone, I shall put my boys to bed one last time," he hissed, enjoying the flicker of fear that shone through Merry's glazed eyes. "And Gandalf will have none of us!"

As sudden and loud as a crack of thunder, the howl of a great wolf tore through the room and the door was thrown open, and Denethor gasped, throwing his head over his shoulder. He did not even see who was there before the arrow struck his shoulder, embedding deep in his flesh and throwing him away from Merry, who drew in a deep, choking breath. A pair of great paws landed on Denethor's chest, knocking him further away, and then the wolf growled, scrambling up onto the bed and dragging Merry back by the collar.

Howling in pain, Denethor grabbed at his shoulder, eyes widening at the blood that spilt fast and free over his fingers, but then a voice he knew better than any cried out a name, with so much pain in his voice that tears welled in Denethor's eyes.

"Merry!" Boromir cried, but Merry shook his head.

"Pi-Pippin!" he gasped, and Denethor watched his son crash down to his knees at Pippin's side.

"No, no, no!" Boromir's voice broke, terror flooding free from it, and he tipped Pippin's head back a little further. "Breathe, Pippin, we're here, we're here, please, breathe, please!"

Behind him, a strange dwarf let out a roar of rage and anguish and he surged forward, but a man – Aragorn the usurper, no less, grabbed him, and held him back, and Pippin gasped in a short breath.

"That's it, that's it," whimpered Boromir, drawing Pippin up into his lap and supporting his head like a baby, keeping his airway open as he rocked him back and forth. "Breathe, Pippin, breathe, please, please…"

A numbness filled Denethor's heart as Pippin coughed, and then drew in another breath, and another, life guiding the rise and fall of his chest as he lay cradled in Boromir's arms.

And then Boromir looked up at him, meeting Denethor's eyes with a look of utter agony.

"Why?" he whispered, shaking his head as his chest shook violently. "Why would… how could… why? Why? WHY?"

This was not supposed to happen. This was not how it was supposed to go. Boromir was not supposed to get hurt like this.

Boromir was not supposed to see an injured halfling and his injured father, and run straight to the side of the hobbit.

Aragorn gave a sudden cry of pain, and Denethor looked up to see the dwarf charging at him, a single-minded fury in his eyes. Boromir let out a yell and from somewhere behind the doorway Gandalf roared, "No!" and Denethor narrowed his eyes.

No chance.

He wrenched the arrow from his shoulder, whole, intact, and as the dwarf charged him he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"I fall by no hand but mine!"

With a flourish, he drew his last deep breath, and in the second before the dwarf reached him, Denethor, son of Ecthelion drove the arrow of Legolas deep through his own eye, and into his brain.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

...

So that was intense to write! I hope that you enjoyed that - I wonder if anyone saw it coming? If you have any feedback, please do let me know, I love hearing from you! As for what comes next, I really hope you'll enjoy that too, but until next time, take care.