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 were 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 have come 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 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.” 

...