Denethor son of Ecthelion, Heir of the Steward of Gondor, wedded Finduilas daughter of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth in the year 2976 of the Third Age.  It was a splendid match, everyone said, the Steward’s Heir and the prince’s daughter.  Both had high lineage: he was said to possess the grace of Númenor in fuller measure than his father, grandfather and all other lords of Gondor in many generations; and everyone who saw her could see the Elven grace in her.  They have regal appearance: he with his commanding height, fine features and decisive countenance; she with her great beauty and graceful bearing. 

He was much older than her, some people said with concern, but those who knew about the grace of Númenor pointed out that he was blessed with a long youth, and they should have many happy years together. 

They loved and admired each other; that was plain to see.  Each found delight in the presence of the other.  He, who many considered cold and stern, was less tense and laughed more when he was with her.  She looked at him with tenderness and her face glowed in his presence.  There were many things they both enjoyed: lore, music, tales of the Elder days, riding. 

As a newlywed couple, they lived at Mardil House, a beautiful house at the Sixth Circle which belonged to the House of Húrin.  They both loved the house and the grove of pine trees surrounding it.  “Is it not like living in Dorthonion?” he laughed as he said to her.  She called the house her Little Ladros, after the region of Dorthonion of old. 

Every morning, they walked together around the pine grove.  Afterwards, they would have their morning meal, and then he would go to the Citadel to do his duties.  Sometimes she went with him; Denethor’s mother had passed a few years prior and Finduilas assumed the duties of the lady of the Steward’s household.  When she had some spare time, she would sit at the garden near the White Tower and do her paintings. 

Most evenings they would have supper with Steward Ecthelion at the Steward’s residence, then would come the best part of the day: walking hand in hand back to Little Ladros. 

There were times that he was away from the City; for he was the Captain General of Gondor.  But thankfully, those times were few and far between. 

In the third year of their marriage, a son came to join their happiness.  Boromir, they named him.  The Lord of Ladros, Finduilas said, her eyes twinkling.  Denethor had never thought life could be so sweet.  Not even Ecthelion favouring Captain Thorongil more than himself could mar Denethor’s happiness. 

When Boromir was four, Denethor saw the first sign of troubles.  They were on their way to the Tower one morning, and holding her hands, he walked towards the jutting pier of rock at the eastern end of the Citadel.  That was one of their usual spots to spend a quiet moment together, she liked it for its resemblance to a ship-keel.  But that day she shook her head. “Not there, husband,” she said.  “Let us sit in the garden instead.”  

In the following days, Denethor observed that when they stood by the City walls, Finduilas carefully avoided looking eastward. 

“The shadow is getting closer and darker,” she said when he asked her. 

He had known for a long time (how, he could not really explain) that the Enemy would strike during his lifetime.  He had accepted it as his lot in life and had given his all to preserve Gondor’s forces.  He had not thought that this would weigh his wife’s heart and mind that much. 

But that day, as they walked to the garden instead of the ship-keel, she gave him her bright smile and bid him not to worry, and Denethor followed her bidding. 

A few months passed, and one day she told him great news: she was again with child.  Everyone was glad when she gave birth to their second son, Faramir. 

She took longer to regain her strength after giving birth to Faramir, compared to her first time giving birth.  And Denethor noticed that she sometimes looked at their sons wistfully, as if she had seen something in them that she regretted.  But what could it be?  Boromir was strong, taller than other children his age, smart and cheerful.  Faramir was a fair, healthy babe and caused them no worries. 

The next year, 2984 of the Third Age, the Steward Ecthelion passed away and Denethor succeeded him as the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor.  Ecthelion’s passing did not come as a surprise to his son or his Council: he was advanced in years and was ready to go to his rest.   

Finduilas was greatly saddened by his departure.  Afterwards, Denethor realized it was not Ecthelion’s departure that saddened her so much (though she loved her father-in-law), but Denethor’s becoming the Steward.  She wept as they left Mardil House to take their residence at the Steward’s house inside the White Tower. 

But as they entered the Tower she gave him a bright smile. “My Lord Steward,” she said with obvious love and pride, and she kissed him. 

She assumed her role as the Lady of Gondor excellently.  The feasts she threw were legendary, the Citadel sparkled under her care, and she oversaw the opening of some smaller Healing houses at the lower circles. 

What Denethor remembered most from those years were the nights they spent in his study.  He would sit at his desk, reading reports, writing missives and letters, planning and pondering, reckoning and reviewing.  She would sit on a chair near the fireplace, reading, writing or knitting, and humming as she did.  Denethor would grumble to her about the obstinacy of his council, about the high expense of maintaining Gondor’s forces, about how little time he had with her and their sons.  Sometimes her comments made him laugh; or her counsel made him see some matters more clearly; some other times, she was more indignant than he and offered to give certain obstinate lords a piece of her mind. 

From time to time she would come to Denethor, sit on his lap, and he would lay aside his worries for a moment, resting his head in her bosom.

...

A few years passed.  Their sons became young boys, their pride and joy.  Meanwhile, the shadow of Mordor grew darker.  

When Finduilas was with Denethor and the children, she smiled and laughed.  But it did not escape Denethor’s notice that when she thought he was not looking, her face grew grave.   

Her smile and laughter were not feigned, he knew her that much. After some time, he understood that the smile and laughter she gave him were the result of her conscious effort to keep his mind from worry.   

To his consternation, it took her rather long now to recover from a cold or other simple illnesses.  Finduilas had always been strong, what had happened?  The healers could not find any cause. 

The people closest to them began to notice her diminished joy.  Some whispered that she longed for the sea, for her land of birth, that she withered in the stone city.  She scoffed vehemently when she heard such whispers, and in the next Yestarë celebration, she displayed her paintings at Merethrond, all depicted different scenes of Minas Tirith.   

Yet Denethor wondered if there was some truth in these whispers.  For when they stood by the wall, her gaze often turned South, towards the sea.  And she looked happier when they were at Dol Amroth (they went there once a year).  When they were there, Denethor felt they were back in the years when they lived at Mardil House. 

Once, when they were at Dol Amroth, he asked her what caused her to lose joy, and what he could do to lessen her burden.   

She looked at him tenderly and wistfully (he would remember that look to his final days), and with her hands clasping his, she admitted that she did miss the sea, for where the sea was, there was no shadow.   

The shadow of Mordor weighed her heart, she admitted.  And the worst of all was that when she looked at their sons, she saw in her mind two young men, brave and noble, spending their life fighting a hopeless war, and this almost broke her heart. 

But then she lifted her chin and gave him a bright smile.  She was a daughter of princes, she said, strong enough to live amidst the looming shadow.  She would stand by his side till they grow old, he needs not worry and should focus his mind on his duties as the Steward. 

He gathered her in his arms and told her not to be so hard on herself.  If the shadow weighs her so, why not spend some time at Dol Amroth with the children?  But she would not hear of it.  The Lady of Gondor stays at the City, she said. 

...

“Would you like to stay at Little Ladros?” 

She smiled.  “For my final days, you mean? No, my love, we have such happy memories of that house.  I would have you remember that house as a happy place.” 

Denethor held her hands and kissed her.   

They had been through much in the past few months.  There was a time when he secretly harboured disappointment.  Why could she not be stronger, for his sake, for their sons’ sake?  She, too, had been disappointed in herself.   

Then there was a time when they debated whether she should stay in Dol Amroth indefinitely (he was for it, she against).  The debate became moot as they came to realize that Finduilas was not well even at Dol Amroth. 

But now, the time for disappointment or debate had passed.  Now, they had accepted that her health was not getting better, that she was dying.  They had accepted it as part of their lives, just as the people of Gondor had lived with the looming shadow of Mordor. 

Once they accepted this, they clung to each other’s company, to the little time they were still given, with such intensity that many who saw them found their hearts moved and their eyes wet. 

Boromir and Faramir, young as they were, sensed the sadness and the great love around them.  At first, Denethor and Finduilas, as most parents would have done in their situation, told their sons not to worry about their mother, that she only needed some rest and all would be well. 

But as Denethor came to accept that she would most likely leave them soon, he thought it unfair to continue giving their sons a false assurance.  Yet, how does one tell one’s children that they must prepare to be motherless? 

Before he found a way, Finduilas had resolved the matter.  One night, the four of them sat by the fireplace in the library.  She placed Faramir on her lap, and asked Boromir to sit by her side.   

With a clear, steady voice, she told them that her body grew weak, that everyone (she, their father, the clever healers, and they themselves who had been very sweet to her) had done all they could, but she was getting weaker as the days passed. 

She would continue trying her best to stay with them as long as possible, she said.  They know their mother never gives up, do they not?  Boromir and Faramir nodded vigorously.  Then she looked them in the eyes and told them that despite her best efforts, she might die. 

Boromir cried at that.  Die, like Grandsire? And he could never see her again? Finduilas nodded, her eyes wet.  Now Faramir cried, too.  While he did not yet know what death meant, he understood how horrible it would be to never see his mother again.  

Throughout all this Denethor fixed his eyes on the fireplace.  He admired Finduilas’ courage and strength, and wondered why such a courageous, strong lady must find her body and spirit weakened. 

“Remember, it was not anyone’s fault that I am sick and may die,” Finduilas continued to tell the boys, “Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”  Denethor knew she said this to console him, too. 

Then, as if his heart had not been pierced enough, she proceeded to tell the boys to “help Father when Mother is no longer here”.  Boromir and Faramir nodded solemnly. 

She concluded the night by telling them the story of Eärendil, one of their favourite bedtime stories.  But this time, they saw the story rather differently: it was not the hero Eärendil who captured their attention, but his young sons, who certainly had had to grow up without their father and mother. 

Little Faramir chirped, “We are more fortunate than Elrond and Elros.  We will still have Father.”  He slid down from Finduilas’ lap and came to Denethor.  “You are not going anywhere, are you, Father?” 

Denethor closed his eyes and embraced his son. 

“Of course not, son.  I will be here with you and Boromir.” 

... 

After Finduilas’ death, Denethor often wondered, had she not loved him that much, had she been a little more selfish, had she stayed at Dol Amroth and cared a little less for him—would she have lived till old age?  

He knew some whispered that she had withered in the stone city, that he, her husband, had forbidden her from seeking solace at Dol Amroth.  Some even suggested that he, the cold and stern lord, had ill-treated her.   

He did nothing to quell the false rumours.  He felt he deserved the ill reputation.  It was true, was it not, that she was spent at such a young age because she had loved him so much and insisted to stay by his side? 

He made sure that his sons knew the rumours were false, though.  He would not have them think of their mother, one of the bravest persons he had known, as a sad woman who withered in a stone city under her husband’s ill treatment. 

He went on living and fulfilling his duties.  Their young sons needed him and Gondor needed the Steward.  He was thankful for his duties; for without them to fill his mind and demand his efforts, what would have stopped him from following her? 

He did not weep much, not even when he was alone.  He had learned to master his emotions, to place them deep within the vaults of his heart and shut the gate closed. 

There were moments, though, when an item, or a scent, or a song, or his sons, suddenly reminded him of her, and his emotions would flood the gate. 

The Dol Amroth family was a source of strength for him and his sons during those difficult few years after Finduilas’ death.  Ivriniel, Finduilas’ elder sister, who had come a few weeks before her passing, stayed in Minas Tirith for several months after the funeral.   

She was one of a few persons which Denethor considered friends, and he was grateful for her presence.  Over the years, she, Imrahil and Prince Adrahil took turns visiting Minas Tirith, and Boromir and Faramir spent time in Dol Amroth with their relatives from time to time. 

The possibility of espousing another lady did cross his mind, but he never seriously considered it.  It would be convenient, of course, to have a wise, competent lady overseeing his household and his sons’ upbringing.  And it would be pleasant to have someone to talk with from time to time. 

But he did not wish to sour his life or to weaken Gondor with feuding among his descendants; he had learned that much from the cautionary tale of Finwë and Míriel.  And his sense of fairness would not allow him to offer marriage to a lady merely for convenience or companionship.   

As to finding love again with another, he was not so ungrateful to expect that he might experience twice such a precious gift, which many never tasted in their whole lives. 

And so the years passed and Denethor remained alone.  His sons grew into noble youths, praised and loved by all.  Denethor took pride in them, particularly in Boromir his firstborn, who resembled him in appearance, though not in heart and mind.   

His second son Faramir was more alike to him, Denethor observed, not only in appearance but also in his love of lore and music, his meticulous mind, and his ability to read men’s hearts.  But Faramir was easily moved to pity, which Denethor deemed imprudent.  

Faramir had pitied him too, Denethor knew.  The son perceived the father’s grief, worries and loneliness, and had responded with love, devotion, and—strangely enough, for a young motherless lad to give the dignified Lord of Gondor—pity. 

He disliked receiving pity, even (or particularly?) from his young son.  Faramir could sense his dislike, and as Faramir grew, he became more careful not to display his feelings, his pity, to Denethor.  But the pity was still there, in his heart, Denethor knew.  Faramir did not try to conceal it or to close his heart to Denethor. 

That became a pattern in their relation: when Faramir knew that his opinion on a matter displeased Denethor, he would obey his lord and father (o, so completely!), he would not air his own opinion, but neither would he change his opinion nor conceal it. 

Another thing which displeased Denethor was that when Mithrandir the wizard visited Minas Tirith, Faramir was attracted to him and followed the untrustworthy wizard like a pupil. 

But those were early days yet; their disagreements were over matters of little importance. All in all, Denethor was content with his two sons, and the three of them were of the same mind in the most, or the only, important matter: the preservation of the glory of Gondor. 

...

Minas Tirith, Year 3000 T.A. 

When he came to the dining chamber that night, his sons were poring over a parchment.  Their heads almost touched, and he heard some chuckles. 

“Any interesting developments?” he asked them. 

Boromir and Faramir stood up and bowed to him. 

“A certain lady had written another love letter to Boromir,” Faramir said. 

Denethor waited until the servant finished serving the soup before asking to see the letter. 

Boromir had enough courtesy to the lady to keep the last page of the letter, which bore the lady’s name, only to himself.  But the first page was instructive enough.  It was full of flattery, and was clearly written by a young lady besotted by a valiant Captain whom she hardly knew.   

“The lady is clearly infatuated,” he said, “but how could you call this a love letter, Faramir?  Given your extensive reading, I expect you to know better.” 

His two sons looked askance at him.  Young people, he thought, tend to forget that their parents were once young, too. 

He did not deign to explain and his sons did not ask.  They proceeded to talk of other matters as they ate their supper. 

After the servant cleared the table, he went to his study and returned with a letter on his hand.  “This is a love letter,” he said, proffering the treasured parchment to them. 

His sons exchanged glances.  Boromir took the letter and unrolled it.  Faramir moved closer to read over his brother’s shoulder. 

“Mother was rather long winded, what was she talking about?” said Boromir impatiently. 

“Hush,” Faramir silenced him. “Be quiet.”

“O, she was giving Father her picture.  How she wrote!  Now I know whom you take after, Faramir.” 

Faramir was silent, with a rapturous expression in his face. 

“The picture which she sent with this letter, was it the one in your study, Father?” Boromir asked. 

Denethor nodded. 

When Faramir finally looked up from the letter, he turned to his father.  “Thank you for showing us this, Father.” 

Denethor gave a slight nod.  “You may keep it.” 

Faramir was surprised.  “Me?” He glanced at Boromir. 

“Why are you looking at me?  Not everything must go to the heir.  And this kind of things obviously belong to you.” 

Faramir rolled the letter carefully.  “I will treasure it, Father.” 

Cautiously, he spoke again, “One day, would you show us her other letters?” 

Denethor nodded.  “Come to my study tomorrow after the ninth hour.” 

He stood up and walked to the door. 

 “You two loved each other greatly,” Boromir suddenly said, “I suppose I will never experience such a thing.” 

Denethor turned to him.  “You never know, it may suddenly come to you.”  But he privately agreed that it was unlikely that Boromir should find such a love.  His heir’s heart was given to glory in swords and arms. 

His gaze moved to his second son.  Faramir was more likely to experience love with a woman.  Well, if he ever did, Denethor wished Faramir would be more fortunate than his father. 

... 

Minas Tirith, September 3018 T.A. 

When he came to the dining chamber that night, his son was reading intently.  Yet the fame of the Ithilien Rangers was not an empty boast: though Denethor made no noise as he entered, Faramir looked up. 

Faramir stood upright, gave him a bow, and remained standing until Denethor took his seat. 

“What are you reading?” he asked. 

“The Laws and Customs of the Eldar,” said Faramir. 

Denethor nodded.  Others may wonder how a captain of Gondor could find the time, or the appetite, for such an irrelevant matter when the threat of the Enemy loomed so near.  But he understood how reading and pondering something so far removed from one’s daily concerns could provide a respite for one’s mind. 

They talked for a while about the naming custom of the Eldar, and about some Quenya words which they thought had the most beautiful sound.  They indulged in this pedantic conversation as they ate the soup and the vegetable dish. 

As they had the meat, Faramir reported about the latest developments in Ithilien, Osgiliath and Cair Andros. 

All the dishes tonight were Faramir’s favourite, Denethor observed.  The Steward’s household was run by faithful servants who took his sons as their boys.  He only needed to inform his housekeeper that Boromir or Faramir was coming home, and all their favourite dishes would appear without fail. 

After the discussion on the border’s defence, they fell silent until Faramir spoke again.  

“Where do you think Boromir is now, Father? It has been three months since he departed.  Somewhere around Greyflood, perhaps?” 

“Tharbad,” Denethor said, with more conviction than what any careful reckoning could give. 

He returned Faramir’s questioning gaze with a glare. 

They held each other’s gaze for a time, then Faramir nodded, as one who agreed to save an argument for another time. 

“Would you like to see the stars later, Father?” 

“Not tonight.  Some reports came from the Southern fiefs today and I have not read them.” 

“Would you let me help you, then?” 

“You have ridden far today, you should rest.” 

There was gratitude in Faramir’s eyes, before he looked down, as he often did when he did not wish to show his emotion.  It rather annoyed Denethor that Faramir should be so touched with this simple expression of care.  What does Faramir think he is, a cold master who does not care about his son’s wellbeing? 

After they finished supper, as Faramir bade him good night and sought his leave, Denethor said, “Rest for a while.  If sleep does not come yet, come to my study.” 

His son nodded and they left the dining chamber. 

... 

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door of the Steward’s study. 

He answered and Faramir entered, now dressed in a simple tunic and trousers.  He looked younger when he was simply dressed, but most ladies would likely prefer him in his armour or formal garb, Denethor mused. 

Faramir sat opposite Denethor and looked at the pile of reports on the desk. 

“I will take Lamedon and Lebennin?” 

Denethor nodded and handed him some blank parchments and a quill. 

For some time, they read in silence.  Since he was thirteen, Faramir had often summarized and commented on the lengthy reports and many letters addressed to the Steward, to save the Steward’s precious time.  This practice had started when Denethor found out that Faramir, rather lonely after Boromir left for the army, spent most of his free time in the Archives of Minas Tirith. 

Thinking that his son’s time and mind should be put to better use than translating the Akallabeth into Westron and Rohirric (which Denethor would not have begrudged him, if they were not preparing for war), Denethor assigned that task to Faramir.   

Faramir was overjoyed to be his father’s personal scribe (an honour not bestowed upon, nor ever desired by, Boromir), and Denethor was glad to have more time for his other duties.  He was also pleased that his intuition that Faramir would be suitable for the task was proven right. 

As Faramir grew, he learned to include his concerns and recommendations in each summary.  Before long, the written summaries and the evening discussions at the Steward’s study had become a routine both of them looked forward to, even in later years when their discussions often turned into debates. 

After Faramir joined the army, he continued this task whenever he returned home.  When he had only a few days in the City, they would simply sit together at Denethor’s study and Faramir would tell Denethor the gist of the reports instead of writing them down.   

Sometimes Boromir joined them, and Denethor always discussed important matters with his heir, but this routine—this sitting together and debating—was something shared between Denethor and Faramir. 

After Faramir became a Captain, Denethor put a stop to the routine.  A Captain had enough duties and worries, and Denethor asked Faramir to rest when he was home.   

“Go to the Archives and indulge yourself,” Denethor said once, which earned him a look of gratitude and surprise from Faramir. 

Another knock sounded at the door, and a servant came bearing an ornate pitcher and two cups.  A faint, pleasant aroma of honey and wine filled the room.   

Faramir poured some for Denethor and himself, and sipped the sweet drink as he perused the letter from Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.  

“As we expected, Lamedon may only be able to send a quarter of their force, if at all, as many are needed for defence against the Corsairs.  The Corsairs have about thirty fleets ready to attack Pelargir anytime,” Faramir said. 

“They have more than thirty, and Harad can easily send thousands of men to further reinforce the attack on the southern fiefs,” Denethor replied, and he spoke as one who not only thought, but knew. 

Faramir put down his cup and looked at his father.  Denethor met Faramir’s gaze with a glare that brooked no discord.  But this time Faramir was undeterred. 

“Father,” he began cautiously, “you told me before that one of the palantiri was preserved in this very tower.  I had not given much credence to the tales of lightning seen at the window of the high chamber, but now I must risk your displeasure by asking: did you use the palantir?” 

That was the first time Faramir asked Denethor directly about this, though several times prior Faramir had inquired about what happened to the Seeing Stones, and subtly entreated him not to tread unknown waters. 

“I do not need to report my actions to you, Faramir.” 

“Pardon me if I take that as an affirmative answer, Father.” 

“You may think what you will, as you have always done.” 

“I think what I will, aye, that much I admit; yet in my deeds I have always obeyed you, this you know.  But about the palantir, it does not matter what I think.  What matters is this: on what authority did you use it, Sire?” 

Denethor had expected a stronger argument from his son.  He told him as much. 

“It was written in the Annals that even Kings Eärnur and Eärnil dared not use it, let alone the Stewards,” replied Faramir. 

“Even the kings! Let alone the Stewards! So that is what disturbed you, that I, a mere chamberlain, dared to do what the exalted kings dared not?” 

His outburst surprised Faramir, and even to himself it sounded more bitter than he intended.  But he continued, “Kings Eärnur and Eärnil, and the Ruling Stewards, refrained from using the Anor Stone because they suspected that the Ithil Stone was in the Enemy’s hands and they did not wish to risk an encounter with him, not because they did not have authority to do so.  I read the Annals, too! 

“As I said, I do not have to report, let alone justify, my actions to you, but lest you should think I am unable to answer you, listen well!  The Ruling Stewards rule in the name of the king.  Until the king returns, the Ruling Steward is the Lord of Gondor, and holds the authority as the king’s vicegerent. 

“So, Lord Faramir, on what authority did I use the Anor Stone? On the authority of the King, in whose name I hold rod and rule! 

“And you, being well-versed in lore, surely must have read that the Stones only respond well to those with authority to use them?  Need I say that the Anor Stone responded to me?” 

Faramir was silent.  Then he said, “I seek your pardon, Sire.  I, a captain of Gondor, was wrong to question the authority of my lord, who rules in the name of the king.  But that question was not my only concern, and a son is surely not wrong in his concerns for his father. 

“You said that after Minas Ithil fell to the Enemy, the kings and stewards did not wish to risk any encounter with him.  Why would you risk that peril, Father?” 

“Need I remind you we are already in peril?” 

“But if the Dark Lord knows the mind of the Lord of Gondor, that is a darker peril.” 

“I know how to guard my mind.  And do you think I would have done this, had there been any other way to defend Gondor?” 

“Father, you are the highest representation of Númenor that I have ever known.  But the Enemy is a Maia; what chance do you have, does any king of Gondor have, when even the kings of Númenor fell under his sway?” 

“Have you any better suggestions for our defence, then? Or do you propose we accept our fate, dwindle and perish?” 

“We will fight to the end, and perish if that be our doom.  But I would not have my father conquered by the Enemy even before our City is assailed by his minions.” 

“Have you so little regard for the courage and might of Men?  Ever your heart turns to wizards and Elves.  But it was Húrin Thalion, a Man, who was unconquered by Morgoth, a Vala, of whom our Enemy was but a lieutenant.” 

“Unconquered, but at what cost, Father?” 

“I do not count the cost when it comes to Gondor.  Had I done so, I would have resigned the Stewardship and lived with your mother at Dol Amroth, and perhaps could have saved her life.” 

The grave faces of both men softened at the mention of their shared love and loss. 

Then Faramir came to Denethor’s side and knelt beside him. 

“Father,” he said pleadingly, “I am afraid for you, I am afraid of losing you.  Do not use it again, I beg you.” 

Faramir’s plea reminded Denethor of the little boy who used to come to his father when he could not sleep. 

He felt a desire to embrace his son, but he settled for patting his shoulder instead.   

“I use it rarely, and with utmost carefulness.  Do not worry overmuch.  Think of your duties instead.” 

Faramir seemed to wish to speak further, to extract a promise from Denethor never to use the palantir again, but a captain of Gondor knew when to fight and when to retreat. He nodded and stood up.   

“It would not be the same as what the palantir can show, I know, but use the Ithilien Rangers to scout more information.  Think of Boromir and me, Father, who have nobody else but you.” 

Denethor was silent.  He did not make a promise unless he was sure he could keep it.  His gaze drifted to the picture on the wall next to him, and he sighed. 

Faramir followed his gaze.  They were silent for some time, the father seated, the son standing, both thinking of the lady who had left them so soon. 

“In some ways, it is a mercy that Mother is not here.  For her, I mean.  How she would worry for Boromir and me, and most of all for you, Father.” 

Denethor did not reply. 

Faramir returned to his seat and they returned to the reports.  They read, discussed the news from the fiefs, debated some matters, but of the palantir they did not speak anymore. 

Finally, Denethor said, “Let us call it a night.”   

Then—he himself was not sure why—he spoke again.  

“When the Council chose Boromir to go to Imladris, some said that he should go as the hardier of you two.  I gave the errand to him not for that reason.” 

Faramir waited for him to continue. 

“When it comes to travelling in unfamiliar lands, you are not less hardy than he is.  You would not have lost your horse, I think.” 

Faramir looked at him with gratitude, then as he comprehended that Denethor spoke of what he had seen, his eyes widened.  

“Lost his horse? He has to continue his journey on foot, then, poor Boromir!  But he is otherwise unharmed?”   

Then he checked himself.  “Nay, do not answer, Father.  For I, who pleaded with you not to use the palantir, shall not wish to enjoy the assurance the vision brings.” 

Then he bowed, bade his father good night, and left the study. 

... 

A few nights later, Faramir sat alone in a room on the second-highest level of the White Tower.  This was one of his favoured places to be alone.  The room was unlike any others, for its ceiling had a part that could be opened to allow some lore-masters to observe the moon and stars.  The Observatory, the masters called this room. 

Faramir was to leave for Osgiliath in the morrow and his heart was heavy.  How else could one’s heart be, when one’s brother was far away, one’s father grew distant, and one’s land was threatened by a much stronger force?   

And yet he also felt a strange calmness, almost resembling peace.  The stars will remain unchanged, he thought, though we all should perish who sang about them.   

Not for the first time, he considered what might befall him and his city.  Most likely he would fall in battle; he had always prepared for that.  Perhaps he would have to endure a long siege before meeting his end in a last stand; he was prepared for that, too.  Or perhaps after a long siege, his father would command them to escape; that would not be the first time the Men of the West had to escape from their land, and a hidden path through the mighty Mount Mindolluin had been prepared by his foresighted ancestors. 

The worst doom, he thought, would be to witness Minas Tirith’s falling into ruins and he enslaved by the Enemy.  He could only hope that, if that came to pass, he would find the strength to endure to the end.  And he had reason to hope: did not the blood of the valiant, long-enduring Men of Beleriand run in his veins? 

As for another hope, the hope that his city would not fail, that the Enemy would be vanquished, it had taken more and more exertion of will to bend his heart and mind towards that hope. 

Sometimes he envied the little children, who could effortlessly have hope without reason.  Other times, he envied the very old, who would not have to endure much longer. 

With a grim smile, he gathered his book and cloak and left the room.  As he descended the stairs, he heard footsteps behind him.  He looked up to see his father a few steps above. 

Denethor seemed dazed, it appeared that he did not even see Faramir. 

“Father?” 

Denethor startled.  “Faramir? What are you doing here so late at night?” 

Before Faramir could answer, Denethor swayed and had to hold on to the wall to steady himself. 

“Father!” Faramir rushed to Denethor’s side and supported him. “Sit down, Father,” he said decisively.  To his dismay, his stern and proud father quietly complied. 

They sat side by side on a step until Denethor finally said, “Let us go down.”  His voice had resumed its usual commanding tone, which brought Faramir some relief.   

As they descended the stairs, Faramir cautiously placed his arm on Denethor’s shoulders.  He felt a mixture of dismay and joy when Denethor did not pull away. 

Upon reaching the Steward’s residence, Denethor straightened and bade Faramir to go to his own chamber and rest.  But when Faramir insisted on accompanying him to the Steward’s chamber, he did not refuse.   

Faramir had a servant bring warm honey water to the Steward’s chamber.  Then he remained there as Denethor removed his cloak, sat on a chair and drank the warm beverage.   

Denethor’s face was pale, and he looked at Faramir with an expression that Faramir had never seen in his father’s face before.  Was it remorse? A tinge of guilt? Denethor? 

“I do not make a promise which I cannot keep,” Denethor said without preamble. 

Faramir nodded.  He understood that this was the closest thing to apology that Denethor would offer.  When he had seen his father on the stair, he had immediately known that Denethor had used the palantir again, despite Faramir’s plea only a few nights before.  Disappointment and sadness stirred within him, but he directed his mind to worry about his father instead.  

“Does this happen every time, Father?” he asked, his voice less gentle than usual.  And yet you still use it again and again? he wished to scream. 

“Nay.” 

He wished to embrace his father, to shake him and beg him never to use the Seeing Stone again, but he stood there dumbly instead.   

His father’s white hair had thinned and there were more wrinkles in the weary face than Faramir remembered.  When had his father become so old?  How had Faramir, whom many praised as perceptive and caring, failed to notice? 

Again, without preamble Denethor spoke, “When Boromir returns, things will be better and I will not need to use the palantir often.”  He said it with an almost childlike trust. 

Faramir nodded.  “Aye, things will be better when Boromir returns.”  He felt a stab of hurt but chose not to dwell on it. 

“You should have—” Denethor said, but then he checked himself. 

Faramir nodded.  I should have gone in his stead, so that he could have remained by your side. 

The expression of remorse and guilt returned to Denethor’s countenance.  He seemed to search for words, before finally saying, “You are far nobler than I have ever been, Faramir.” 

Faramir was left wondering what his father meant by this, for Denethor did not say anymore.   

Then his father closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he had regained his composure. 

“Go and rest, Faramir, you have to depart early in the morrow.  I am well now,” he said in an even voice. 

Faramir straightened and composed himself.  Had he seen himself in a mirror, he would have been surprised to see how alike his expression was to his father’s.  He nodded, bade his father good night, gave him a perfect bow and left the chamber. 

He thought he would not be able to sleep that night, but sleep came, and with it the dream of Númenor being engulfed by the Sea. 

When he woke from the dream, he thought that what made the end of Númenor terrible was knowing that they had lost the grace of the Valar.  For to perish in the embracing wave of the Sea was not such a bad doom.

... 

Before he left for Osgiliath, his father summoned him to the Steward’s study.  That morning, Denethor appeared well, the dark circles under his eyes the only trace of what had happened last night.   

“Let me assure you I am well, Faramir, for I would not have you leave with more worries than what you already have to bear.” 

Faramir nodded.  “I will do my duty well, Sire; rest assured of that.” 

Then Denethor placed his hands on Faramir’s shoulders and kissed his forehead.  It was a common gesture of blessing and farewell among the people of Gondor, and Denethor did not do it more affectionately than his wont.  But somehow this simple act broke Faramir’s restraint.   

To the end of his days, he could never articulate what compelled him then, for before he knew it, he had embraced his father tightly, as a little child might before parting. 

“Father, Father!” he said.  And the eloquent Lord Faramir could say nothing else but to call on his father. 

Perhaps a strange power was indeed at work that morning, for behold! Denethor returned the embrace. 

Many things rushed over in Faramir’s heart, but he did not wish to disturb the precious, fleeting moment with spoken words.  He closed his eyes and savoured his father’s embrace. 

After a moment, he drew back slightly, still holding onto Denethor, so that they could see each other. 

It was rightly said that Lord Denethor and Lord Faramir read men’s heart shrewdly.  That morning, as their eyes met, each understood what the other did not utter. 

I do not mind that you favour Boromir more. Forgive me for displeasing you in many matters, but I do not begrudge you your displeasure.  That you live and are well, that is enough for me. 

Foolish boy, I would have felt better, and so would you, if you sometimes swore at me, instead of being so noble and understanding all the time. 

Faramir laughed at that.   

Then—not because he wished to, but because he must—he let go of his father’s arms, straightened himself and bowed deeply.   

Denethor nodded.   

“May the light shine on you, Faramir, Gondor needs you.” 

“I will, Father.  And may the light protect you, whom Gondor needs even more.” 

... 

Minas Tirith, 15 March 3019 T.A. 

The Grey Fool asked him to prepare a sortie, Denethor laughed bitterly to himself.  The sortie had been ready for many years.  For he had not let his lady’s foresight go unheeded. 

The vision she had described seemed like a retreat from the outposts to the City.  In such a situation, a sortie (preferably with mounted soldiers) would be needed to give the retreating force a chance of survival.  And their son would be in that perilous retreat, she had said. 

Thus he had striven to strengthen Gondor’s cavalry.  He bought more horses from Rohan and trained more soldiers to fight on horseback.  Their number was still too few for a proper attack, but at least he would have a sortie ready when it was needed.  No son of his should be slain so close to the City, not while Gondor still had men left to succour him. 

That evening, as the Siege of Gondor began, fear and despair hung heavily in the air.  Denethor stood on the battlement of the White Tower, straining his eyes and mind to pierce the shadow and discern what was happening below at the Pelennor.  Next to him a trumpeter was ready to give the signal.   

Below them, by the Great Gate, the sortie waited for the signal. Imrahil must be at the forefront, his two sons not far behind, Denethor thought, all three waiting impatiently for the signal and swearing at him.   

He recalled the look of disbelief and disdain that Finduilas’ brother had shot him after the last council was dismissed, as Faramir strode off to prepare his men to go to Osgiliath.  To go for the terrible task of defending the outposts, as Denethor had commanded. 

He strained his eyes to see as far as he could.  All was dark, veiled in the shadow of the Enemy.  The sound of hoof beats reached his ears.  Is Faramir come?  He also heard flapping wings in the air, which chilled his heart.   

At last an ordered mass of men came into view, less than a mile from the Great Gate.  Faramir must be there, who else could keep the retreating men in such order?  Regardless of his stubbornness and his dubious loyalty, his second son had proven an able Captain. 

He saw the winged shadows on the sky, the Enemy’s horsemen and numerous Orcs.  Finduilas had seen rightly, then.  Foul black creatures stooping to kill their son; swarming Orcs pursuing him.  If this was what she had seen that day many years ago, no wonder her joy had faded afterwards. 

He commanded the trumpeter to give the signal.  The trumpet rang, and out rode the knights of Gondor with a great shout.  He could see Imrahil’s blue banner.  The Prince of Dol Amroth outpaced the rest; riding like one chased by a herd of wild beasts.  Yet Denethor wished Imrahil could have ridden even faster. 

He could not see Faramir.  Was his son alive?  Did an arrow pierced him, as Finduilas had seen?  Would Imrahil reach him in time? 

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.  What right did he have to worry for Faramir?  He, who had cast Faramir in this desperate situation. 

He shook his head.  It would not do to get distracted now.  He directed his mind to the battle below.  As he saw the sortie about to go too far, pursuing the enemy, he nodded to the trumpeter.  The trumpet rang again, the knights of Gondor halted and retreated, as the Lord of Gondor had called them back. 

As he waited in the Tower for his son, or at least news of him, his mind wandered to years past, when things had not been so dark.   

When Faramir was about twelve, there were nights when he struggled to find sleep.  On those nights, he would either go to Boromir’s chamber or come to Denethor’s study, where he would sit quietly until he finally fell asleep. 

There was one night, when alone in his study, Denethor glanced at the chair where Finduilas used to sit.  He was suddenly overwhelmed by grief and he wept.  When his emotions subsided and he regained his composure, he was startled to see Faramir standing near the door.  How long his son had been standing there silently, Denethor did not know.   

Then Faramir, that twelve-year-old child, came to him, hugged him tightly, apologized for having disturbed him many times, wished him good night, and left.  Thenceforward, Faramir never again complained to Denethor about his dreams (or anything else, for that matter) or cried over missing Finduilas in his presence. 

Some thought Faramir acted this way out of fear of his stern father, but Denethor knew the real reason.  That young motherless child—was Faramir not more pitiful than him?—loved and pitied him and stubbornly refused to add to his burdens. 

Was there ever a father who received as much pity from his son?  And what had he given in return?  

“That depends on the manner of your return,” he had said to Faramir in their last parting.   

Whatever had possessed him to say that?  Even the Doom of Mandos had not sounded so cruel. 

Then again, what had come over the two of them in the last three days?   

They had grieved together over Boromir’s death—mostly in silence, admittedly—yet they had stood side-by-side and found solace in each other’s presence.  They had parted amicably (though not warmly) fifteen days prior, when Faramir departed for the errand in Ithilien.  Faramir left after giving him a heartfelt salute. 

Where had things gone wrong? 

Then, eleven days after he left for Ithilien, Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith, pursued by the accursed winged shadows.  When Denethor heard of that, he froze, gripped by the memory of Finduilas’ foresight.  He quickly ordered the Citadel guards to succour Faramir, but Mithrandir and his shining white horse had reached the Gate first.   

Words could not describe his relief and pride when Faramir entered the Steward’s residence—alive and standing firm, though pale.  So great had been his relief that Denethor had remained silent even when Faramir openly reported to Mithrandir about Isildur’s Bane, as if Denethor had not been present. 

It had not surprised Denethor that Faramir had let the Halflings and Isildur’s Bane go, that he wholeheartedly supported Mithrandir’s foolish plan concerning such a powerful weapon.  His second son was one to think that way.  Why, then, had Faramir bothered to seek Denethor’s approval?   

“I hope I have not done ill?” Faramir had asked, having fixed his eyes on Mithrandir throughout the discourse.  What could he have expected Denethor to respond? 

Yet his ire over Isildur’s Bane, over Faramir’s faith in Mithrandir, could not justify what had happened in the Council chamber.   

Why had he rebuked Faramir with the mention of courage?  Faramir would have gone willingly, had he asked him.  Then he would not have had to command him to go, and could have sent him with his blessing.  

“If I should return,” Faramir had said. 

If he should return?  Surely he would return—would Denethor have commanded him to go, had he not been sure of that?   Surely he would return—he could govern men and beasts, his life was charmed, Finduilas had foreseen his return to the Pelennor! 

But then again, was he truly sure of that?  They had known that the host of Mordor was coming in a great force, that Gondor’s force would be outnumbered, that the retreat would be perilous.   

Was Denethor even thinking about retreat?  Had he not thought, in a flash of desperation, that Osgiliath shall not fall, no matter the cost?  Had he not imagined, in a fit of anger, that Faramir would rue letting the powerful Ring go, when pressed by the Enemy's forces in Osgiliath, and thus learn an important lesson?   

Aye, aye, he screamed inwardly, I was guilty of all that!   

Yet he could say one thing in good conscience—he could swear this by Finduilas’ memory—that he had never thought, not even for a moment, that Faramir deserved to die and therefore had commanded him to die in Osgiliath. 

Again, a bitter laugh escaped him.  What was he doing?  Was he trying to defend himself? 

“Think better of me,” Faramir had said.  How could he think better of him?  If only Faramir knew what he thought of him!  But how could Faramir know, since he had never told him? 

The sound of heavy footsteps behind him pulled Denethor back to the present. 

He turned, and there he was—his son, whom he had sent unthanked and unblessed to peril, in Imrahil’s arms. 

After Finduilas died, Denethor had thought he knew grief.  After Boromir’s death, Denethor believed he understood despair.  But that night, as he viewed his son’s motionless body, Denethor realized he had not known grief or despair until that very moment.   

This was his second son—the less favoured one, a voice whispered in his mind—who preferred the wizard’s counsel to his own, who rambled loftily of hope when there was none, who spoke nonchalantly of the return of the king, who foolishly discarded the One Ring, the son whom Denethor had said should have died in that foolish errand instead of his beloved Boromir. 

So why did he feel that nothing mattered anymore? 

“Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds,” Imrahil said.  The disdain in the prince’s eyes had turned into a cold fury tinged with pity.  Denethor would have preferred the disdain, but as he looked at Faramir’s face, he no longer cared about Imrahil or anyone else. 

His son’s face was calm, as one who knew he had fulfilled his duty and had now gone to his deserved rest.  He looked so fair and noble that he would not seem out of place among the silent statues of the kings in the Tower Hall below.  Handsome, tall and noble, Finduilas had said; how right she had been!   

And there was no disdain or hatred marring that face.  At their last parting, Faramir had let his hurt, sadness and anger show—and as ever, pity—but not the deserved disdain or hatred. 

This son, too, had loved him greatly, Denethor thought, and he felt the invisible knife that had stabbed his heart at Finduilas’ death plunge deeper into his being. 

... 

Minas Tirith, October 2988

In the middle of the night, Finduilas suddenly awoke.  Turning to her side, she saw that her lord was still awake. 

“Finduilas?  Do you need anything?” 

She shook her head.  In fact, she felt better than she had in a long time.  She knew this would not last, and intended to make the most of her strength while it did. 

She moved closer, resting her head against her husband’s chest. 

“Do you know, my lord, I regret nothing,” she said softly. 

Denethor caressed her hair.  “Not even young Tuor and his mansion at Belfalas?” 

Finduilas laughed.  “You will never let me forget that, will you?” 

“Nay, I will not let myself forget that you chose me over him.” 

She lifted her head to meet his gaze.  “Aye, I chose you, Denethor, and this beautiful City, and the looming Shadow, over another man and a peaceful life at Belfalas.  Had I been given another chance to choose, I would still have done the same.” 

Denethor’s brow furrowed, and his voice trembled.  “I wish I could say the same.” 

“Do not misunderstand,” he continued.  “I have never regretted our lives together.  I am grateful to be with you, be it for long years or a short while.  But I cannot cast aside the thought that you might have lived blissfully had you not chosen to come here.” 

“What use is there in pondering what might have been, husband?” 

Denethor nodded, and they kissed. 

“Have you any fear?” he asked. 

She shook her head.  “Death is the Gift of Men.  I will receive it with courage and a smile,” she said.  “Despite his terrible Doom, I believe the Lord Mandos is merciful.” 

“Only you, vanima, would say that of the Doomsman of Arda.” 

“Just as I am the only one who says the Steward of Gondor is kind,” Finduilas replied.  “But I am not making light of death.  The judgement each of us must face—I think that will be painful, though not in a physical sense.” 

“To see ourselves as we are, to be made aware of our failings, you mean?  Aye, that will be painful.” 

“But since death and judgement is ordained for Men by our Maker, even if there is pain, it would be bearable and serve a purpose,” she replied. 

Denethor smiled, remembering a time early in their courtship, when they debated the discourse of Finrod and Andreth, with Denethor taking Andreth’s part (and some of the bitterness) while Finduilas affirmed the Elf-lord's view. 

Denethor kissed the top of her head, cherishing her presence. 

“I wrote letters for Boromir and Faramir, to be read... after,” she said. 

“I will give them the letters,” Denethor said slowly.  The thought of doing so saddened him, but who else would?   “Will I receive one as well?” 

“I intended to, but as I began, I wondered—what good could it do?  All I write seems hollow.” 

“Even if you write only your name, I will treasure the letter.” 

She smiled and turned to face him.  Raising herself slightly, she traced his face with her fingers, then covered it with kisses. 

He sighed, with longing and concern.  “It will not tire you overmuch?” he asked cautiously. 

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing his worries. 

That night they cleaved to each other—all pretences, regrets, doubts and worries shed away with their garments.  A man and a woman with naught between them; love overflowing through their bodies as they gave themselves to one another. 

For some time she had not liked him to see her unclad, for she had been ashamed of her thinned body.  But that night, shame had no place between them.  And when he looked at her and told her she was beautiful, she knew he meant it. 

He found her beautiful, for he saw one who had been so assailed by the Shadow that her body paid the price, yet chose to stay near the Shadow, for his sake. 

With every touch, he lavished his love on her—for soon she would embark on a journey where he could not protect her; he would give her his all, while he still could.  That night, all thoughts of seeking pleasure seemed to him foreign and low. 

She summoned all her love and tenderness and poured it out on him—for he would have to endure life without her; she wished to give him warmth that might console him, if only a little. 

In the quiet after, as they lay entwined, Denethor felt peace—a fleeting respite from the weight of the world outside.  But as dawn would inevitably break, so too would their doom. He tried to etch this moment into his memory, to carry her with him through the darkness that lay ahead. 

A few weeks later she died peacefully in her sleep, without saying farewell to him.  But there was no need, for they had spoken and heard all they needed to. 

She did leave him a letter.  It was like their life together: sweet but too short. 

... 

My lord, 

Do you remember the letter I sent with my picture, where I grandly proclaimed that time with her swift wings shall not overtake my devotion to you?   

It seems so long ago, yet it also feels as near as yesterday.  Forgive me if I still have the audacity to say the same, for my devotion remains steadfast, even if I am not present to show it. 

I shall not burden you with requests for forgiveness for leaving you and our sons, for my failure to be stronger. You have the right to resent me for this. 

I do not need to ask you to be a good father to our sons, for I know that you will be.  You will guide them with your strength and wisdom.  The foresight I had of our son, only a noble father could have raised such a man. Cherish them, protect them, and when they are grown, let them share some of your burdens. 

If our sons should displease you in some matters, my lord, grant them your understanding.  They are young, and is it not the lot of parents to see their children choose their own paths? 

I will not insult you by advising you to take another wife.  To any other men I might, but not to you.  For one, you do not need my permission to do so.  And knowing your heart, how completely you have given it, how could I so lightly say to give it to another? 

It will be hard on you, I know.  It may take years for the pain to fade. 

Take heart, my lord, and do not give in to despair.  O, I am one to speak, am I not? I, who could not hold onto my joy, despite loving you and our sons.  But you will be stronger than I. 

Do not be too proud to seek aid from others, I beseech you.  Pride can be perilous, and this is your only failing—the only thing which has made me worry about you, dear husband. Remember Turgon and the fall of Gondolin. 

Endure, beloved, and in no time, the years will pass, you will find you can smile again—though grimly, I imagine—our sons will be grown, you will have lived your full years, and then, we will be together again, in the Hall of Mandos, or beyond this world. 

I have been very happy in the brief years we have shared.  If you have found even half as much joy, and that has strengthened you in carrying out your duty, I would count my life worthwhile. 

Written in Minas Tirith, 2988 

Finduilas wife of Denethor 

... 

Acknowledgement: 

Finduilas’ letter in the Prologue was inspired by the letter of Princess Elizabeth (the future Queen Elizabeth I) to her brother, King Edward VI.  Her letters can be found in this website: https://www.elizabethfiles.com/resources/letters-of-elizabeth-i/