He was aware of nothing but the Horn in Faramir’s hands.

Though his son still stood a good distance away, Denethor could see every detail of it as clearly as if he held it in front of his own eyes. He saw the Horn had been split from mouthpiece to end, the cut almost smooth, but jagged enough to prove that it had not been cleaved easily; the trace of dirt on the metal scrolling, the shallow scrapes along its length, and he saw that the leather shoulder strap was darker than normal, as if it were wet.

Denethor wondered dimly if the strap was wet with water or blood, and with that horrific thought, his mind and vision both went black.

“Father!” Faramir’s broken, anguished voice dragged Denethor back to harsh reality, and he found himself kneeling on the cold marble floor, staring blankly at his son. “Father ---”

Denethor pulled Faramir to him in a fierce, desperate embrace, clinging to the boy as if he had nothing else to hold him to this world. “My son,” he wept, father and child shaking with their shared grief, “oh, my son.”

And neither knew nor cared which son he meant.