Chapter 2: The Sons of the Steward

There had been no hope for Men since the passing of Isildur. The world of Men was left in doubt and growing darkness. The line of kings had been broken many years ago. In the land of Gondor, the darkness was the greatest.

The Dark Lord Sauron bordered Gondor to the east. For many years his realm lay quiet after his defeat at the hands of Isildur. Then, great, black clouds began to cover the skies of Mordor. It was at last that Mount Doom burst forth with a new life. There was also a beacon: a fiery eye watching the border. It was the Eye of Sauron.

The Men of Gondor began to despair. The Dark Lord had returned to cover the world in darkness again, as he did hundreds of years before. Adding to the despair was the empty throne of Gondor. There had not been a king since the days of old. Thus, the leadership of Gondor was left to the Stewards, caretakers for the throne.

In the days of old, stewards were once great examples of Men. The ruled the city with strength and wisdom. It wasn't until the return of Lord Sauron that the stewards began to despair. The once magnificent men gave into fear. Thus the rule of Gondor was given to lesser men.

Not only did the rulers of Gondor begin to despair, but all that grew and lived. The city became grey as the skies above it. The greatest loss was the White Tree of Gondor. In Minas Tirith, the White Tree was the tree of the King. During the days of the kings, the White Tree flowered gloriously. It wasn't until after the slaying of Isildur that the tree withered. Not long after, the White Tree died and bloomed no more.

Yet a small glimmer of hope remained among the people of Gondor. The return of Sauron had not completely diminished their spirits. They still had some hope that they would defeat the Dark Lord just as he had been defeated before. Not even the darkening skies could dampen the spirits of the people.

The hope of Gondor was also great in their hope for a king. The people of Gondor awaited the return of their king for many years. They longed for the day when Isildur's Heir would be crowned. They yearned to have sanity and compassion in the stewards again.

The people of Gondor had so much hope that they guarded the White Tree. The Tree's death did not matter to those who guarded it. What mattered to them was the belief that it would one day live again. That is the belief that urged the people on during those many years.

The Steward in this time was Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Denethor was a wizened figure of a man, but still lordly. He had hair of silver like that which decorated the White Tower. Denethor was a strong, hard man like the stone of his city. The darkness had not diminished his hope. He was still a proud man in those days.

In the year 2970, Denethor had not been named steward, but his father, Ecthelion had the title. It was then that Denethor met and fell in love with a woman named Finduilas. For six years after that, they courted.

It was not until then that Denethor asked his love what was in his heart. "Finduilas, you know I love you, do you not?"

"I knew that many years ago, my love," Finduilas said lovingly.

"You know that I am not a glorious king like the kings of old," Denethor said solemnly.

"I know, but I care not," Finduilas said, "You are as lordly as a great King of Men."

"I may not be a king, but I would certainly feel like one if you would take my hand in marriage," Denethor said tenderly.

Finduilas could say nothing. Denethor's tender words touched the very center of not only her heart, but her soul.

"Well, will you have me?" Denethor asked anxiously.

"Whether you are a great king or not, I will wed with Denethor son of Ecthelion," Finduilas said merrily.

Thus it was in the year 2976 of the Third Age, Denethor and Finduilas were wed. For many years, the couple remained in bliss despite the coming of Lord Sauron. Two years later, the couple was blessed again.

"Denethor, my love, it seems that we have been granted a miracle," Finduilas said merrily.

"What is this miracle you speak of?" Denethor asked.

"We have been blessed with a child," Finduilas said, her as glimmering as bright as the White Tower.

In 2978 of the Third Age, Finduilas gave birth to her first child with Denethor. The labor was long and arduous, lasting into the hours of the night. Finduilas never faltered and Denethor was by her side all through the night. Finally, a child's cry flooded the room.

The exhausted Finduilas held her new child in her arms.

Denethor beamed. "You have a greater strength than any soldier of Gondor, my love. You have done well."

"Denethor, we have a son," Finduilas sighed.

Denethor's proud smile widened. "He is a strong son of Gondor. He will make a great Steward one day, I can see."

"What will be his name?" Finduilas asked.

"We shall name him Boromir, son of Denethor," Denethor declared. "A strong name for a strong child."

Boromir was indeed a strong child. He grew in wisdom and strength. Denethor took great pride in his son.

"I foresee that he will be destined for greatness," Denethor said proudly.

Two years later, Denethor and Finduilas were given another son. His name was Faramir, son of Denethor.

Denethor loved both of his sons and had saw both of them becoming men of wisdom and strength.

Unfortunately, all good things do have an end. Finduilas had been greatly weary since the birth of Faramir. She began to feel her few years bearing down on her. She had contracted an illness that brought despair to Denethor as well as Boromir and Faramir, who were only children. To their great sadness, Finduilas died at so young an age.

Denethor's despair was unfathomable. No one, not even his sons, could bring him comfort. He had already lost his father and became Steward years before.

It was then that Denethor began to despair in the return of Lord Sauron. He had changed from a wise, strong man to a man living in fear and without reason. The weight of the Dark Lord's influence began to bear down on him.

Not only did Denethor suffer from himself, but his children suffered. They had seen their father's despair and it dampened their spirits as well. When Boromir and Faramir were in their teenage years, both were instructed as warriors. Boromir never ceased to please his father with his strength and skill. Faramir seemed to go unnoticed.

Denethor began to love his firstborn more than Faramir, it seemed. Whatever great deeds Faramir had done did not please Denethor. Boromir always gave his father pleasure no matter what he did. Denethor had also grown annoyed that Faramir learned from the wizard Gandalf the Grey.

While Boromir and Faramir hunted, both men succeeded in catching their prey. When they returned to their father, Denethor had nothing but praise for Boromir.

"My son, it seems you are the most skilled hunter in Gondor," Denethor boasted.

"Father, you exaggerate," Boromir said humbly. "The true victory belongs to Faramir. Without him, our prey would have escaped."

Denethor frowned. "And what would a wizard's pupil know in the ways of the hunt?"

"Have I displeased you, Father?" Faramir asked.

"How can I be pleased when my son learns from a wizard?" Denethor demanded.

"I do not mean to displease you, Father," Faramir said.

"You never intend to displease me, but you never intended to please me," Denethor countered.

Faramir did not say a word. Tears seemed to glisten in his eyes at his father's words.

"Father, please!" Boromir pleaded.

Denethor turned and left without saying another word.

"What have I done to displease him, brother?" Faramir asked solemnly.

"You have done nothing of the sort, little brother," Boromir comforted. "You are much stronger and wiser than I am."

"Then why doesn't Father see it?" Faramir asked dubiously.

"Father does see it, even if he is too proud to admit it," Boromir countered. "He loves us both. He will remember that one day."