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TolkienScribe's Scribblings  by TolkienScribe


His sons were not repulsive in looks. In fact, one may even call them handsome. Their Númenórean descent was strong; black hair, sharp grey eyes and strong figure. Their looks were refined by the mixed Elven bloodline from their mother. Doubtless their children would be fine.

And that brought him to his present predicament. Perhaps he had been too indulgent with them, as each of his sons rode off to one skirmish after another and returned victorious and showed no signs of settling down.

"Did you know," Denethor said to his youngest when he entered his study and left a pile of reports on his desk, "that amongst the many duties, one must also produce an heir?" Faramir raised both his brows.

But Denethor severely underestimated his opponent.

"I agree, father. I will pass this on to your firstborn, so that he may complete this duty at the earliest, which is so basic in nature… in wedlock, of course."

Denethor laughed.

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