Barahir had admired his grandsire since he was a young lad.  The Steward of Gondor, the Prince of Ithilien, the lord who had rebuilt the garden of Gondor to surpass its former glory, the lore master who seemed to know every tale from the Music of the Ainur to the Fourth Age, and the generous man who patiently answered Barahir’s many questions (whenever time allowed, which was regrettably seldom). 

As Barahir grew, he began to notice something in his grandsire that had eluded him before:  a touch of sadness, most apparent in moments of joy.   

Barahir had heard and read that some peoples carried some sadness: the Eldar bore the sadness from the memory of the First Age and the Undying Land; the Men descended from the Númenóreans carried the gravity, the lament of the lost Land of Gift. 

But the sadness which Barahir perceived in Grandsire was more than the gravity of his lineage.  It was not that he was always brooding or bitter (Grandsire was never bitter), but there were moments when Grandsire seemed to be surprised, even amazed, by the joy that surrounded him. 

Barahir remembered their family gathering in Ithilien the previous summer.  They gathered in the dining hall of the Prince’s house: Grandsire, Granddame, their children, sons and daughters-in-laws, and numerous grandchildren.  Everyone was talking, debating, laughing, singing, reciting; how boisterous they all were!  

Barahir caught his grandsire’s expression amidst the laughter and the bustle. He saw gratitude, amazement, wistfulness, and something like guilt all written across his face. After a moment, Grandsire’s gaze shifted, surveying the scene with the focus of a painter attempting to commit every detail to memory, to translate them to a canvas afterwards. 

When he mentioned this to his siblings, they said he was thinking too much. As for the sadness in Grandsire, they had noticed it, but none seemed particularly curious about it. 

“He grew up during a time of war, Barahir,” said his brother.  “Those who lived through war are different from us, who have known only peace.  And his parents... well, you cannot say it was a cheerful tale.” 

His sister, with her usual confidence, added, “Grandsire is Grandsire; he is a fact to accept, not to ponder.”   

This was rich, Barahir refrained from remarking, coming from the same sister who lamented that there was no man like Grandsire in their generation, after reading about the legendary kiss by the wall of the Houses of Healing. 

The mention of family history intrigued Barahir, and the next time he had leave from the army, he spent most of his time in the library. 

He read again the Annals of the Stewards, and the copy of the Red Book of the Pheriannath.  He had read them before, and had long known about his great-grandsire, the palantir and the pyre.  His father had made sure that Barahir and his siblings heard their family’s sad tale from him, instead of from other people.  

Denethor II was a noble Steward, Barahir’s father had said, who had been driven to despair during the War of the Ring, lost his wisdom and chosen to end his life.  Believing his son Faramir (Grandsire) was dying, and knowing that the City was burning, Denethor wished to meet death together with Grandsire and ordered a funeral pyre for them both.  But some brave heroes prevented the madness and managed to save Grandsire, though not Denethor. 

Barahir had heard the tale from his father before he read the Red Book and the Annals, that perhaps when he read it himself, the story had lost the element of shock, and as a result, Barahir had failed to fully appreciate the tragedy.  

But this time, as he revisited the accounts, many questions raced in his mind. 

How does despair take root in one’s heart?  What makes one person succumb to it, while another does not?  How could Denethor have so ruthlessly sent Grandsire to perilous battle, and with such cruel parting words?  And what was the right word for what Denethor attempted—killing or murder, wilful or unintentional?  Was it out of despair and twisted love, or resentment and anger?  Had Grandsire ever forgiven him?

Barahir’s father had sternly prohibited his children from asking their Grandsire about this matter, though Grandsire himself never evaded any mention of Denethor. 

One day when Grandsire invited him to lunch at the Steward’s residence in the Citadel, Barahir could not resist asking the questions that had filled his mind. 

“I re-read the Annals of the Stewards and the Red Book recently,” Barahir said. 

“Any particular part?” Grandsire asked with interest.  He always welcomed a discourse on history. 

Barahir looked at Grandsire uneasily. “The departure of your father, Grandsire.” 

“Ah,” Grandsire said.  He did not seem surprised, and it occurred to Barahir that Grandsire had perhaps gone through this conversation several times with his children, and perhaps other grandchildren. 

“He tried to kill you, Grandsire,” Barahir said abruptly. 

He had expected Grandsire to argue against this; to deny the harshness of the word.  But Grandsire nodded and said calmly, “Aye, he did.” 

Barahir stared at Grandsire, unsure of what to say. 

“I am glad you use the word ‘kill’,” Grandsire remarked. “I have heard others describe it as ‘murder’.” 

He regarded Barahir steadily.  “Nothing is gained by denying what happened, Barahir.  The only thing I ask is that you remember that by all accounts, my father did not see it as trying to kill me.” 

Barahir remained silent, pondering this. 

As if to give Barahir a moment to think, Grandsire slowly inspected the apples in the silver fruit bowl in front of him.  His hands moved deliberately, picking up one apple after another, inspecting each, and returning them, before finally selecting a plump, gleaming one and offering it to Barahir. 

“Lossarnach’s red, your favourite,” he said. “They just arrived this morning.” 

Barahir accepted the apple and poured more wine for both of them. 

Grandsire regarded Barahir.  “What else would you like to ask me?” 

With some hesitation, Barahir said, “Did you ever forgive your father, Grandsire?”   

Grandsire’s hand paused mid-reach for his goblet.  “I think you may have misunderstood the story, Barahir,” he said softly. 

After a moment’s pause, he continued. “Many—including you, my lad—out of love for me, have spoken of how I had suffered, how I had borne my burden well.  I accept your love and pity.  But my burden was light compared to my father’s.  Did anyone ever think how much he suffered? Nay, because he was the proud Lord of Gondor.” 

Barahir had never thought of that.  In his mind, Denethor was a fearsome, powerful figure.   

“Whenever my brother or I rode out to battle, Father always parted with us with practiced composure,” Grandsire said. 

“He would give his blessing, touch our foreheads, and off we went.  People said he was cold—I myself had thought so.  But when I sent my own sons to battle—on my command, no less, for that is the lot of rulers and princes—I began to understand.  Had Father allowed himself to feel a little more, he might not have been able to command us to go.” 

He did not give you his blessing on that cruel last parting, Barahir thought, but he did not say it. 

He did not need to, for this was Grandsire, who understood much that was left unsaid.  Grandsire looked at him knowingly and took a deep breath. 

“Even now, I do not know what had compelled him in our last parting,” Grandsire said slowly.  “That day, he was unkind.  I have accepted it; he must have had his reasons.  But that parting wounded him, too, and he had not been able to forgive himself.” 

Grandsire’s expression was serene, with a tinge of sorrow, like one who remembered someone dear, long lost.  He sat comfortably in his seat, without any sign of tenseness. 

“You … were fond of him,” Barahir said wonderingly, almost accusingly.   

Grandsire looked at him.  “And that surprised you?”  

He smiled faintly.  “We loved each other in our fashion.  It was a different bond from what your father and I have, or what you have with your father.  He was not only my father but also my liege lord.  And he was grim and stern, even more so after my mother died.  I was daunted by him, but I also saw his loneliness and the weight of his duty.” 

Grandsire’s faint smile reminded Barahir of his expression during the family gathering. 

“I saw your expression when our family gathered around your table,” Barahir said.  “You seemed amazed, wistful, and there was guilt, too, in your expression.” 

“Ah, I have many perceptive grandchildren,” said Grandsire.  “Do you know we inherit our shrewd perception from him?”  

“When I looked at my children and grandchildren gathered around me and my lady, happily discussing various matters other than war, I was amazed. Many of my generation feel this way. 

“If you had grown up resigned to the fact that one day you would die defending your land, would you not have been amazed to find yourself in old age, surrounded by loved ones, in a peaceful and prosperous land?” 

Grandsire’s voice grew more forceful.  “In such moments I often thought of my father and brother.  They were noble men who did great deeds for Gondor.  How was it that they were deprived of so much, while I was granted so much? 

“Then I would remember my father and mother, how they started life with great happiness, but it did not last, and not due to their fault.  Does it not make one tremble, knowing that those we love could suddenly vanish? 

“So I tried to etch those happy moments in my memory, like ants gathering food for winter, to sustain me if dark days ever returned.” 

It seemed his sister was (as usual) right, Barahir thought—Grandsire was Grandsire. 

Then Barahir thought of his own life—in which the greatest affliction so far had been trying to follow the footsteps of his renowned family and surviving army rations.  Suddenly he realized how much he had taken his blissful life for granted.  How his life was like a tapestry, each thread won through the wounds of his forefathers, including his great grandsire, whom he had viewed with harsh judgement. 

As if knowing his thoughts (he did know, Barahir would realize later), Grandsire patted his back and said, “You are still very young, Barahir.  Do not burden your mind unnecessarily.  Find joy in each day, and do not fear what the morrow may bring.  When it comes, you will find the strength to bear it.” 

... 

After that conversation with Grandsire, Barahir felt sadness for him, and, strangely, for his great-grandsire as well, whom he had never known except through tales and written records.  He kept thinking about them, about the years they had endured under the threat of the Shadow, their bitter parting, and Denethor’s tragic end.

One night, to clear his mind, he wrote about them.  He wrote like a fool, imagining how things might have turned out differently.  Foolish exercise, he knew, but once the words were on the page, he could sleep.   

He kept his writings to himself, unwilling to risk hurting Grandsire with his fanciful imagination.  But perhaps one day, he might share them with his sister.  Though insufferable at times, she could be surprisingly understanding. 

This was what Barahir wrote. 

“But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought—not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” 

Then all were silent.  But at length Faramir said, “I do not oppose your will, Sire.  Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it.” 

“I do so,” said Denethor. 

“Then farewell!” said Faramir.  “But if I should return, think better of me!” 

Denethor’s heart had hardened over the years, but even he was startled at these words. 

The silence stretched before he finally replied, “I command you to defend the outposts, not to throw your life away needlessly.   Delay the Enemy as long as possible, then make a retreat.” 

... 

It was recorded in the Annals of the Steward that the Steward Denethor II—in grief and near despair over his dying son and the siege of Minas Tirith—ordered a funeral pyre to be prepared for him and for Faramir his son, for them to meet death side by side. 

But at the last moment Mithrandir, the Halfling Peregrin and Beregond of the Citadel guard managed to prevent this gruesome death—and slaying, in Faramir’s case, though Denethor had failed to recognize it. 

There in the dark and silent House of the Stewards, as he looked longingly at the face of his dying son, Denethor wavered. 

He touched Faramir’s cheek as if bidding him farewell, then he ordered the servants to bring Faramir to the Houses of Healing.   

To Mithrandir he said, “Very well. I will do what I can to defend my City, even if it is only for you to hand it over to the upstart from the North after my death. But if Faramir lives, do not trample on his rights—you are fond of him, at least.” 

And so Denethor son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, fought valiantly at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and there he fell.  Some said that he fought recklessly, for he would have rather died than surviving his son and his City.  

... 

(B)

“But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought—not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” 

Then all were silent.  But at length Faramir said, “I do not oppose your will, Sire.  Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it.” 

His words seemed to penetrate even Denethor’s hardened heart. 

“I do command you to defend the outposts.  But do not throw your life away needlessly.   Delay the Enemy as long as possible, then make a retreat.” 

They looked at each other, Steward and Captain, father and son. 

Faramir nodded.  “I will.  Farewell, Father.  May Minas Tirith never fall!” 

Before Faramir rode east, he went to see Denethor in his chamber, but what passed between them on that last parting they only knew.

... 

It was recorded in the Annals of the Steward that the Steward Denethor II—in grief and near despair over his dying son and the siege of Minas Tirith—ordered a funeral pyre to be prepared for him and for Faramir his son, for them to meet death side by side. 

But at the last moment Mithrandir, the Halfling Peregrin and Beregond of the Citadel guard managed to prevent this gruesome death—and killing, in Faramir’s case, though Denethor had failed to recognize it. 

There in the dark and silent Houses of the Steward, as he looked longingly at the face of his dying son, a flicker of hope sparkled in Denethor’s heart. 

He kissed Faramir’s forehead, then he ordered the servants to bring Faramir to the Houses of Healing. 

To Mithrandir he said, “Very well.  I will do what I can to defend my City, which my sons have bled to defend. If I fall and Faramir lives, you shall guard him, Mithrandir.” 

And so Denethor son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, fought valiantly at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and fell there.  It was a noble death, fitting for a Steward of Gondor. 

... 

(C)

“But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought,” Denethor said.   

He turned to Faramir, seated on his right.  “Faramir, will you go?” 

They looked at each other, the Steward and his heir, father and son, while others fell silent. 

“I will, Sire,” Faramir said.  His eyes kindled with love and understanding, and all marvelled at this.  

“I will not make a last stand at Osgiliath nor at the Rammas, though.  We cannot afford losing so many men at the outposts.  They are needed to defend Minas Tirith.” 

Denethor nodded.  “Delay the Enemy as long as possible, then make a retreat.”

Before Faramir rode east, he went to see Denethor in the Hall of the Tower, where Denethor gave him his blessing.

... 

For a whole night and day, while Minas Tirith was besieged by the Host of Mordor, Denethor had sat beside Faramir’s bed in a chamber at the White Tower, gazing at his son’s face and holding his burning hand. 

When men came asking the Lord of the City to go down to the First Circle to give commands, he refused. 

“I must stay beside my son.  He might still speak before the end,” said Denethor. 

A little while later, Faramir moaned and called for his father in his fevered dream. 

At that one word, one faint word which was to be the only reward of his long vigil, Denethor wept.   

“Did you hear that, Peregrin?  My son called for me!” 

Then suddenly Denethor’s heart changed.  What was he waiting for?  What words did he need to hear from his son?  Knowing Faramir, Denethor knew what he would say: that he had done his utmost, that he sought Denethor’s forgiveness for having failed to deny the Enemy passage, as Boromir once had. 

Denethor would not let Faramir spend his last strength to say those wretched words.  For too long he had let (or made?) Faramir be the understanding, accepting son. 

He did not need to wait for Faramir’s words.  Instead, it was he, Denethor, who should speak. 

He kissed Faramir’s forehead and spoke close to his ear. 

“All is well, Faramir.  Minas Tirith still stands.  You have done well; Rohan will come soon.” 

Faramir did not stir, but tears slipped from his closed eyes. 

Rohan would come soon, Denethor had said to Faramir.  He did not know whether it was true; he had said it to comfort his dying son.  But now a flicker of hope sparked in his heart, piercing the encircling gloom of despair. 

He touched Faramir’s face gently.  Then he ordered the Halfling Peregrin to call the guards to bring Faramir to the Houses of Healing.   

Afterwards, Denethor went down to the First Circle to take up again the command of the City’s defence.  He rode and joined the battle of the Pelennor Fields.  He fought valiantly and fell there, but not before witnessing the coming of the Riders of Rohan.

...

Acknowledgement:

The first few sentences in scenarios (A), (B), (C) above are taken verbatim from The Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King.