The Gondorian soldiers atop the outer wall of Minas Tirith watched with growing apprehension as the small dust cloud grew in size. Someone or something was approaching the beleaguered city at a fast rate. Could this be a new threat from Mordor? Hands tightened their hold on pikes. Lungs expanded to sound an alarm. But no cry was necessary. Closer now, the dust no longer concealed the white horse and its grey-clad rider. The guards' alarm lessened. They knew the rider to be a friend of the city.

"Open the gates! Gandalf the Grey approaches!" Hallas, captain of the soldiers on the wall, called to the gate wardens below. Rattling metal chains as the locks were released indicated his orders had been heard and obeyed. Hallas turned to the soldier next to him. "Send word to Lord Denethor of Gandalf's arrival. He will want to know that the wizard is here." With a quick salute, the soldier left on his errand. The captain's gaze returned to the plain outside the wall's perimeter in time to see horse and rider pass beneath the gate wall, the horse's speed barely checked as he galloped into the city and up its winding roads.

Gandalf's passage up the streets of Minas Tirith was faster than the message's trip to Denethor. As a result, the Steward of Gondor was unprepared when the Citadel door wardens announced the wizard to their lord. Nonetheless, the Steward greeted him courteously albeit coolly in the great hall of the Citadel. The Steward had no great love for the wizard unlike his younger son, Faramir, who often kept Gandalf's company when the two were in the city together. Denethor had long ago learned that when Gandalf the Grey sought an audience, he wanted something from the Steward but seldom wished to fully reveal what or why.

"You wish to study the old Royal Archives," Denethor repeated after the wizard had made his request. "To what purpose?"

"This and that," Gandalf responded lightly. "To refresh my fading memory."

Denethor's eyes narrowed; he was angered by the wizard's unwillingness to expand on his intent. Still, the Steward kept control of his displeasure and let no sign of it color his words or his tone. To speak to a member of the Istari in anger was a foolish act, and Denethor was no fool. Instead, he gestured to one of his aides who stood attentively by an arch. "Cirion will escort you to the archives and instruct the archivist to provide all assistance you require." With a nod of gratitude, the wizard swept from the great hall to follow the aide. After his departure, Denethor's unleashed his anger. "Go to the archivist," he growled at another aide. "Tell him I want to know every parchment the wizard reads. Have him report to me after Mithrandir leaves. The wizard is not to know of this," he added for final emphasis.

Four days later, the Royal Archivist stood before Denethor to report on the wizard's activities. Belecthor nervously pulled some strands of his white hair out of his eyes and cleared his throat. "I led Gandalf down the stairs to the very depths of the Archive. He wanted to review our oldest records. I lit candles for light and provided him with a chair at the desk. He studied many documents, pulling them by the handfuls from the shelves. Most careless, he was. Those are very fragile parchments!" Belecthor shook his head and wrung his hands in dismay. "Later he asked for drink which I fetched for him with great reluctance. My lord, he should not have been drinking near such valuable writings. What if he had spilled his drink?"

Denethor waved the archivist to silence. "What were the contents of the parchments?" he asked, speaking as one would to a slow-learning child.

The older man blinked in confusion. "The contents, my lord?"

"Yes." Denethor's growing impatience showed in his white knuckles and his tight voice. "What was the wizard reading about?"

"Did I not say?" Belecthor asked, his thoughts rattled by the Steward's ire. "Gandalf wanted to read about the Last Alliance and Isildur's short reign. That was why we were in the depths of the Archive. The oldest records of the kingdom are kept there." He fell silent, hoping he had finally satisfied his lord's curiosity.

Denethor mulled over the information in silence for several moments. He could not fathom why Gandalf would be interested in records from the beginning of the Third Age, but he was determined to uncover the wizard's intent. "Send every parchment that Mithrandir examined here. I wish to look them over myself," he ordered. At the archivist's shocked gasp, Denethor pierced the older man with a sharp gaze. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no, my lord!"

"Then you are dismissed. Have the documents delivered by the morning." With that, Denethor temporarily set aside the mystery of wizard's hidden purpose, confident he would discover it once he reviewed the histories himself. However, several nights spent reading the old parchments failed to enlighten him. One document described how Isildur cut the One Ring from Sauron's hand at the Battle of Dagorlad. Another, written by Isildur himself, explained why the new king chose to keep the Ring and make it an heirloom of his house. A third told how Isildur was killed and in the ensuing confusion the Ring was lost. Denethor knew these histories from childhood and saw no new information to explain Gandalf's sudden interest. Eventually, the daily concerns of governing Gondor combined with the growing orc troubles in Osgiliath overwhelmed Denethor's pursuit of the wizard's mysterious intent. But the question lingered in the recesses of his mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"My lord Denethor! I bring urgent word from Osgiliath!" With those loudly spoken words, the Gondorian soldier burst into the great hall of the Citadel heedless of decorum. One sharp look from the Steward, seated at the council table, reminded him of his place. He stopped short, bowed, and spoke again more softly. "Forgive me, my lord. Captain Faramir has sent me to tell you that Osgiliath has fallen to the orcs. They were too many for his forces. He could not prevent …" His word's faltered as Denethor rose slowly from his chair in disbelief.

"Osgiliath has fallen? Captain … Faramir," the Steward said disdainfully. That one of his own had lost the great city to the Shadow shamed him. That the soldier was forced to announce his son's failure here, at the seat of Denethor's rule, was an affront the father found hard to forgive. Faramir had failed in his duty, not only his duty to the protection of Osgiliath but to the honor of his father as well.

"Yes, my lord," the messenger began again. "Captain Faramir …"

"Silence! Do not speak of his failings to me!" The Steward interrupted viciously. Denethor motioned his aides to join him at the table, but directed his words to the waiting soldier. "Have my son and maps of Osgiliath sent to me immediately." He looked to his aides. "We must make plans to reclaim the city at once," he informed them.

The soldier hesitated then said, "My lord, it may be several hours before Captain Faramir …"

"Boromir, you fool!" The Steward's face was livid when he turned on the soldier. "My firstborn son. The one who will never fail me. Now, go!" With a hasty bow, the soldier turned and fled, thankful to escape his furious lord.

Several hours spent in war council with his aides and his older son had done little to ease Denethor's anger towards Faramir. As a result, when Faramir arrived from Osgiliath and requested permission to join the council, Denethor refused. Boromir, ever loving of his brother and aware that Faramir truly had too few men to protect the city, argued that his intimate knowledge of the events was critical to any hope of regaining the lost city. The Steward finally conceded that Boromir could meet with Faramir after the war council was finished and adjust his plans according to any new information. However, Denethor did not look upon his younger son that night or the next morning as the troops departed regardless of how the elder pleaded. Only in this manner was his anger finally calmed.

Later that day, Denethor sat in his private chambers reading dispatches received from the outlying areas of Gondor. One report troubled him greatly. The report stated that a rumor had been heard that strange riders were seen heading westward through the kingdom. Denethor noted the rumor spoke of nine black-clad riders on black steeds and immediately thought of the Dark Lord's most fearsome servants, the Ringwraiths. Although the dispatch took pains to emphasize the dubious nature of the rumor, Denethor found he could not easily dismiss his growing concern. A knock on the chamber door drew his thoughts back. "Come," he called.

Cirion entered and bowed. "My lord, messengers have arrived," he said, barely able to contain his excitement.

"From Osgiliath?"

"No my lord, from Rivendell." His eyes widened, and his voice pitch rose. "They are elves, my lord." Denethor wanted to chastise the man for his childish reaction to the presence of elves but found he could not. Elves had not visited Minas Tirith since Denethor was a young boy. To Cirion who was younger than Denethor, the elves must seem as legends come to life. Denethor understood his astonishment. "They request an audience with you as soon as possible."

Denethor nodded. "Escort them to the hall. I will meet with them in ten minutes." Cirion bowed and departed, leaving Denethor to wonder why so many legends from past ages were making themselves known in these current times.

Fifteen minutes later, formal salutations had been exchanged between the Steward of Gondor and the three Rivendell elves standing before him. Their leader, Gwanunig, quickly came to the reason for their visit. "My lord Elrond requests that Gondor send a representative to Rivendell to attend a Council. The Council shall address a matter of grave importance to the future of Gondor and all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth."

Denethor studied the elf, noting all that had not been said in his message. "And what is this matter of grave importance?"

"I cannot say, my lord."

"Cannot say? Or will not say?" Denethor asked coldly, annoyed by the elf's evasiveness.

"I cannot, for Lord Elrond did not gift me with that knowledge. I know only that the need for the Council is urgent. That is all I need know," Gwanunig replied with an equally chilly tone, annoyed in his turn. His companions stirred but said nothing. Unfastening the top clasp of his outer tunic, Gwanunig reached inside and withdrew a sealed parchment that he held out to the Steward. Cirion retrieved it and presented it to Denethor. Once opened, the parchment revealed a map of the lands of Middle Earth. "Lord Elrond sends this map." Gwanunig explained. "It details the fastest route to our lands. By following this map, your representative should reach Rivendell in the shortest time possible. The map will also serve as your representative's safe passage through our lands once the borders of Rivendell are reached."

Denethor studied the route drawn on the map with some surprise. The chosen way would indeed save travel time but would take the traveler through treacherous lands. Gwanunig saw his surprise and nodded in agreement. "Lord Elrond warns that the route is dangerous, but it can be traversed with caution. My companions and I used that route to reach Minas Tirith."

"Then you shall escort my representative back to Rivendell if Gondor chooses to attend."

Gwanunig shook his head. "My companions and I are not immediately returning. Gondor's representative will be needed before our return is expected."

Denethor reached his decision quickly. Whatever the subject of Elrond's Council, it was imperative that Gondor be present. "Very well then, Gondor shall attend. Provide Cirion with any further necessary information. I shall consider who will travel to Rivendell," he announced. "And why Elrond has called such an urgent yet secretive council," he said to himself as he withdrew to his private chambers.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Steward of Gondor stood on one of the streets of Osgiliath while the battle to reclaim the city raged around him. Gondorian soldiers fought to the death with the orc armies of the Dark Lord. The clashes of metal, the screams of pain, the smells of death should have overwhelmed him. Yet Denethor felt strangely distant from it all as if he were not truly present. Indeed, none seemed to note his presence; their concentration devoted solely to their struggle for life and death. Suddenly the battle stilled; an unnatural chill settled on the city streets. The Dark Lord, Sauron the Deceiver, had appeared. Blackest black was his raiment broken only by a band of gold around the index finger of his right hand -- a hand that held a massive mace. With his mace, the Dark Lord scythed through the combatants both friend and foe. All fell before him. Dread gripped Denethor; the end of Man had come. Suddenly, hope arose in the Steward's breast. Boromir, his beloved firstborn, came forth to challenge Sauron. As the Dark Lord reached down to strangle his challenger, Boromir swung upward with his sword, slicing the fingers from the Deceiver's hand, including the ring-bearing one. Lightening flashed from within the blackest black raiment. In a roaring wind, the Dark Lord dispersed, leaving behind only the charred remains of a finger encircled by the unblemished ring.

Denethor watched from his perch in the tree as the King's escort trooped on the road underneath. Pride filled him as the King of Gondor rode into sight. Even in the grey of the morning, Denethor could see the One Ring hanging from a gold chain around the King's neck. "How fitting that Boromir chose the Ring as the heirloom of his house. All of his descendents shall be bound to its fate, for my son will suffer no harm to come to it," he thought. Pride turned to horror with the swiftness of an arrow though, as servants of the Dark Lord attacked the King's escort. Denethor scrambled down the tree. Unable to reach the ground until the battle was over, Denethor found three arrows embedded in his son. Teary-eyed, the Steward sought to preserve his son's heirloom, but the Ring and its chain had mysteriously disappeared.

Seconds later, Denethor saw the Ring and chain again glinting in the sunlight around the neck of a distant solitary traveler. Riding a magnificent white stallion, the traveler wore grey robes and a tall pointed grey hat. The stallion galloped towards a misty valley. His pounding hooves sounded like thunder, far louder than those of a single horse should have sounded. Moments later, five more horses, black with black-robed riders, appeared behind the white stallion, clearly giving chase. Two more black horses came from the right, while a third approached from the left. The grey rider might have been able to avoid the trap had not a ninth rider appeared unexpectedly in front of the white stallion. The great white reared in surprise throwing its rider who lost his hat. Slowly, painfully, Faramir rose from the ground to face the nine who encircled him. His long hair held in loops and knots blew back from his pointed ears as the wind rose. Faramir gripped the Ring, ensuring it was still on its chain. "You shall not have it," he snarled at his approaching doom. Denethor watched helplessly as his son was cut down, feeling each distant sword bite viscerally.

Denethor awoke with a gasp, his heart pounding, his body reeling from the dream's sensations. "The Ring has been found," he whispered to the dark in his bedchamber. Reaching for the dressing robe lying at the foot of his bed, Denethor got up and walked to a window without lighting a candle. Drawing back the curtains, he opened the shutters and gazed at the red glow atop the mountains in the distance. The mountains that lay between Gondor and Mordor were always red-flamed these days. "Is it true?" he asked the mountains. "Have you found your Ring?" The mountains did not answer the Steward's question and for that he felt relieved. If Sauron had the Ring in his possession again, Denethor reasoned, his armies would be attacking more than just Osgiliath. They would attack Minas Tirith itself.

However, Denethor could not dismiss the dream as a mere horror created in his sleep. Too many past dreams had successfully foretold future events for him to ignore the warnings of this one. Gandalf's unexpected visit, the records the wizard had studied, the council in Rivendell, the rumors of nine riders, the increased activity of Sauron's forces, and then finally this dream -- Denethor considered each in turn. Yes, he decided, the Ring had been found. But if Sauron did not yet have it, who did?

The answer came like a lightening bolt -- the elves. Or if the elves did not actually possess the Ring, they knew where it could be found. Clearly, the location of the Ring was the subject of Elrond's council. The meeting had been called to discuss its fate. Would the elves claim it as theirs? Perhaps others might desire it as well such as the wizards Gandalf or Saruman. What would the council decide to do with it? Regardless of the council's decision, the Ring must be brought to Gondor's aid, Denethor decided. With the Ring in Gondor's control, his people could defeat Sauron's growing threat. However, Denethor suspected the council was unlikely to allow the Ring to come to his people's aid. The others had little concern for the dangers that faced his people.

Before retiring for bed, Denethor had thought to send Cirion to represent Gondor at the council. Now, he realized he could not. Cirion would ensure that he left Rivendell with the Ring in his possession -- by treachery or by force if necessary -- Denethor was certain of this. But Cirion was not well versed in the history of the Ring. He did not understand the true danger the Ring presented to its bearer. The Ring would easily corrupt his aide during the journey back to Gondor, as he was not strong-willed enough to resist its call. The Ring would never reach Minas Tirith in Cirion's possession. But in the possession of a greater man, the Ring could be safely brought to the city and become the weapon Gondor needed to defeat the enemy. No, Cirion was not the man Denethor could entrust with Gondor's future.

His thoughts turned to sons. Boromir was needed here to continue the fight for Osgiliath. "Perhaps I should send Faramir?" he thought. Though Denethor seldom preferred him to Boromir in any matter, Faramir was undeniably the more scholarly of the two. He recognized his younger son's knowledge of history and lore; in his judgment, it was one of the few areas in which Faramir excelled. Faramir understood the Ring and its dangerous history. However, did not the dream remind him of Faramir's love of the Grey Wizard and the elves? Was that not the warning his dream offered him regarding his younger son? If Denethor sent Faramir to represent Gondor, he would no doubt doom Gondor's fate by agreeing to whatever course Elrond proposed. No, only Boromir could be trusted to deliver this gift to Gondor. But should Denethor sacrifice Osgiliath by sending its savior on a mission to Rivendell? The question plagued the Steward through the rest of the night.

Dawn came without a decision. Denethor refused to discuss the Rivendell journey though Cirion broached the subject twice during the morning. He realized a representative had to be appointed soon but could not bring himself to risk losing the Ring by sending Faramir nor risk losing Osgiliath by sending Boromir. However, before Denethor was forced to choose, news came that the battle-worn city had been reclaimed. Furthermore, his sons had suffered no injuries from the battle. Denethor immediately ordered a horse prepared for him for a ride to the city. He needed to speak with Boromir as soon as possible.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Well done. Well done." Denethor strode through the crowd of soldiers in Osgiliath, offering his congratulations. Soldiers milled around him praising both sons for their efforts. Their words pleased the Steward; however, the multitude kept him from the sight he most desired. Eventually, he started calling for his son. "Where is he? Where is Gondor's finest? Where is my first-born?"

Boromir heard the call and stepped out from underneath an archway. "Father!"

Delighted to finally see his eldest son, Denethor held out his arms beckoningly and enfolded him in a loving embrace. "They say you vanquished the enemy single-handed," he said with pride.

"They exaggerate," Boromir said broadly. "The victory belongs to Faramir also," he added.

The mention of his younger son brought memories of the day of Osgiliath's loss and the angered shame he had felt at the announcement. His anger swelled again. The father's words sliced like a sword. "But for Faramir, this city would still be standing." Seeing Faramir approach, Denethor asked him coldly, "Were you not entrusted to protect it?"

"I would have done, but our numbers were too few," Faramir responded.

"Oh, too few," Denethor answered scornfully unwilling in his anger to acknowledge the truth in his son's claim. "You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim," he said rejecting Faramir's defense. Denethor stepped towards him and lowered his voice in disgust. "Always you cast a poor reflection on me."

"That is not my intent," Faramir said sadly.

Walking away from the all-too-familiar scene, Boromir muttered a soft-spoken criticism, half to himself, half to his father. "You give him no credit, and yet he tries to do your will." Shocked, Denethor turned and followed his son. Here, away from his fellow soldiers, Boromir pleaded his brother's case. "He loves you, Father."

"Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses, and they are few," Denethor growled. Boromir shook his head, but Denethor did not give him the opportunity to speak. "We have more urgent things to speak of," he continued. "Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why," Denethor paused briefly, "but I have guessed its purpose."

End

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Author's Notes
The dialogue and action for the scene in Osgiliath come from Chapter 41 "The Sons of the Steward" of The Two Towers Special Extended Edition DVD. This story is dedicated to Nilmandra and Lindorian. Their discussion on the Stories of Arda Yahoo list prompted me to write this explanation of how Denethor knew about the discovery of the One Ring. I realize that I broke canon in characterizations and events. Ordinarily, I would not choose to do so. However, my goal was to create a plausible explanation consistent with the framework of the movies. I hope you will find my interpretation acceptable.