Chapter 4.  Resolutions (Part 1) 

 

After their discovery of the mysterious lady in the Archives, Boromir and Faramir had continued to observe Denethor closely—as closely as possible without incurring his ire—while awaiting him to broach the subject with them. 

A few days passed without word or sign.  They had guests at supper, which barred private conversations from the table.  As for the morning meal, Denethor had his very early those days, and went to his study thereafter. 

But one evening, at last, Boromir and Faramir found themselves alone with Denethor at supper. 

A supper in the Steward’s household was a curious affair.  Most observers would deem it a formal occasion lacking in familial warmth.  Yet the three of them, accustomed to each other’s ways, looked forward to their quiet supper together. 

Faramir, naturally inclined to tradition, had never thought it strange that he and his brother should stand upright and bow to their father before each meal.  Indeed, he had been surprised to discover that some families dispensed with such formalities.  He had also never found it odd that their suppers often turned into lengthy questioning (on their father’s part) or heated debates.  It was only when he joined the army that he learnt how relaxed supper was in most homes. 

Boromir—accustomed to being the centre of attention and affection in their family—was likewise the subject of Denethor’s questioning, though rarely reprimanded in the same way as Faramir was.  In recent years, however, as Faramir grew to manhood, Boromir had spent many a supper watching the delicate balance between his father and brother, defusing the tension when necessary.  At times, he wished his father and brother were a little less obstinate, yet he loved them with all his being and would not have them otherwise. 

Denethor, the source of much of the formality in their household, was well aware that he had driven his sons hard, sometimes more as a captain than a father.  He had long accepted this as his lot as a ruler.  He thanked the stars that his sons seemed to welcome his presence, despite everything. 

... 

 

That evening, they had their supper in Denethor’s study, instead of the grand dining hall.  The cook had prepared a simple meal, which they preferred when no guests joined them. 

As they savoured the soup, they began discussing Gondor’s border defence. 

“How is the garrison at Osgiliath, Boromir?” 

“Morale is high among the soldiers,” Boromir answered, “considering everyone knows we are in the first line of defence.  We could use reinforcements, but I know we cannot afford them.” 

Boromir spoke of many matters concerning Osgiliath, from the intelligence they had gathered on the Enemy’s movements, to the more mundane matters of soldiers requesting transfers to the City.  His words were punctuated with Denethor’s occasional remarks, further questions, and approving nods. 

Faramir listened intently—he had been posted to Osgiliath before, and the ruins of the ancient city had remained in his heart. 

As Boromir concluded his account, Denethor turned to Faramir. 

“How do you find Pelargir?  You have always liked the sea; your stay must have been at least tolerable.” 

“I adapted well enough,” Faramir replied.  “I experienced a skirmish with the Corsairs, of which I wrote a report to you.” 

He had performed more than well enough, Denethor knew.  Every month he had received glowing reports from Faramir’s captain, praising his deeds and grasp of strategy.  This, from a captain who knew how much Denethor spurned flattery. 

As usual, Denethor gave a measured nod. 

“And what do you think of our defences there?” 

“We have too few ships, that we are practically defending our coast and not our sea,” Faramir replied.  “It saddens me that we, descendants of sea kings, have been reduced to this.” 

He hastily added, “But there is no use dwelling on it.  The men guarding the coast are vigilant and valiant, they do their duty well.” 

Denethor nodded.  “The Enemy continues gathering his strength.  When he finally strikes, it will be from various directions.  Osgiliath, for certain.  And he may well strike the Southern fiefs from Pelargir.” 

“The Corsairs are in alliance with Harad,” Boromir said, “but they both are proud peoples and not under the Enemy’s sway.” 

“Not yet,” Denethor and Faramir said, almost in unison. 

They paused as a servant arrived with the meat. 

She set down a large plate of partridge pie and a plate of greens before them, then left the chamber.  When his sons were home, Denethor preferred they serve themselves, keeping the meal private. 

As they continued their meal, they spoke of the Corsairs of Umbar, Harad, and the growing threat of Mordor. The topic then shifted to the advantage of mounted troops and the alliance with Rohan. 

The mention of alliance soon steered their discussion towards alliances and treacheries of old, and the hopeless battles of the First Age. 

“Most of the tragedies of the First Age could have been averted had the Noldoran been more constant,” Denethor remarked.  “In a way, that is also what we see in Harad now.  Their first chieftain had many wives, most of the warring chiefs are descended from him through different wives.” 

Faramir cast a glance at Boromir, who said nothing.  Then he turned his attention back to Denethor, as if studying his mood. 

After a brief hesitation, Faramir said softly: “The Noldoran had only one living wife at a time, Father.” 

Denethor’s gaze remained fixed on his plate as he cut the meat with precision. 

“Yet it was still the lower road,” he replied, “or so The Statute records.” 

He looked at Faramir, giving a silent permission for further words on the matter. 

“The Statute—at least the versions handed down to us—concludes that Finwë chose the lower road by his second marriage,” Faramir responded.  “Yet I do not see it as a weakness that he found another love, a cherished companion with whom to share his days.  In a way, is it not partaking in the Hope, too, to believe that he can find healing through his second marriage?”

Denethor placed his knife on the plate, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Was it not inconstancy to Míriel, and placing his own happiness above that of his son?” he asked calmly. 

“Much has been written on the double bond of love between Finwë and Fëanor, father and son,” Faramir answered with equal calm.  “If a son loved his father, he would rejoice in his father’s joy.” 

Faramir lowered his eyes.  “But that is only my thought; perchance a mighty mind like Fëanor’s works differently.  And I have not been asked to prove my word.” 

He raised his gaze again, meeting Denethor’s.  Then, still softly but with earnest conviction, he said: “Yet if I should be asked to prove it, Father, I daresay I would not perform ill.” 

Denethor stared at his younger son, who held his gaze evenly.   

So they had learnt of Adanel.   

Denethor was not surprised.  His sons were perceptive and resourceful; and he had not sought to conceal from them his growing friendship with the lady. 

Not only had they discovered it; but Faramir had also given him his blessing—unasked and without condition.  

Had Faramir even considered what it would mean to have a second mother?  Not to mention half-siblings, who would demand their share of authority and wealth. 

Denethor glanced at Boromir.  His heir had shown surprise when Faramir declared his blessing.  Now he was pensive, keeping his thoughts to himself. 

A silence settled among them, broken only by the occasional clink of utensils. 

Denethor reached for the wine bottle on the table and uncorked it. 

“Your grandsire sent this last month,” he said, as he poured the Dol Amroth red wine to Boromir’s and Faramir’s goblets.  “A different composition from the usual produce, he mentioned in his letter.” 

Boromir tasted the wine.  “Interesting flavour,” he said, “though I still prefer Caraneth.” 

Denethor took a sip, raised an eyebrow at the unusual taste, then spoke again. 

“Finwë took another wife not only because he desired love and companionship, but also because he wished to have more sons.  Do you still say his son should rejoice in this?” 

“He had only one son, so that was ... understandable,” Boromir said cautiously.   

Denethor smiled wryly.  

He could finish Boromir’s sentence: While you already have two, Father. 

Boromir would not find it easy to welcome his father’s wife, let alone a half-brother—so accustomed was he to being the one his father loved best. 

“What say you, Faramir?” Denethor asked. 

“What is wrong with desiring more sons?” Faramir answered, slightly more insistent than his usual measured tone.   

“In a time of peace, they bring joy to the father.  And in a time of war, to a father who is also a ruler, that would mean having more captains.” 

Faramir spoke with simple certainty, devoid of any bitterness, and that made Denethor pause. 

Was that how his sons saw their lives? That they were born and raised so that their father might have stout captains?   

Had he ever given them reasons to think otherwise? 

He turned his eyes towards his heir.  Boromir, eagerly awaiting the day he would become a captain, would not imagine any life but that of Gondor’s champion in war.  He had the fortune of loving the life allotted to him. 

But Faramir—Faramir would have chosen a different life, had he been given a choice. 

What a fine lore master he would have made, Denethor mused, expounding wisdom through speech and written word. 

But there had not been such a choice.  Not for Faramir, not for any of them. 

And Faramir had accepted it with nary a complaint—the foolish boy.  He had accepted his duty to defend Gondor, and to fulfil that duty in this time of war, training at arms must take precedence over his preference. 

In this matter at least he was Denethor’s son, though Denethor began to see that in many other respects they differed. 

For Denethor had also been guided by his duty to Gondor all his life.  His duty had enabled him to continue serving Gondor, even when placed second to that dubious sellsword in his father’s esteem and in the men’s hearts.  His duty had kept him in Minas Tirith during Finduilas’ last years, though his heart yearned to take her hand and start a new life at Dol Amroth, far from the Shadow. 

His finger touched his Steward ring, as he often did when he remembered Finduilas. 

Then another memory came to him.  Not of Finduilas, but more recent ones. 

The pleasant afternoons in the Archives.  Adanel’s sparkling eyes as she defended her arguments, lighting up her face and making it beautiful.  The gentle sorrow in her eyes at the mention of Denethor’s grief.  And finally, her sweet smile as her hands straightened his mantle. 

Denethor took a deep breath and turned his gaze upon his eldest son once more. 

After Finduilas’ death, it was not only duty that made Denethor carry on living.  There were his boys, deprived of their mother at such a young age, holding his hands as men adrift at sea cling to an anchor. 

Boromir, his joy, his pride, his heir—should he be asked to share his father’s love and pride with others? 

It would not be fair to deny a lady the chance to bear children.  But what if those children vie with his heir? 

Faramir loved Boromir and accepted graciously that Boromir was Denethor’s favoured one.  Not all sons would behave so. 

And Gondor—his charge, his duty—already under threat from a formidable enemy.  Should a potential kinstrife be added to its list of troubles? 

You have chosen the high road all these years, why give in now?  he chided himself. 

Denethor exhaled and pushed aside the thought of Adanel and of his solitude. 

Gondor comes first, as always. 

“Finwë had an excuse for taking the lower road: he did not know how it would turn out,” Denethor said.  “We, who came after, and with the history to learn from, do not have that excuse.” 

Boromir and Faramir studied him intently, waiting for his pronouncement. 

“Whatever else Gondor has to contend with, it will not have to contend with kinstrife among the Steward’s descendants,” Denethor declared.  “Not while I am Steward.” 

Looking straight into Boromir’s eyes, he said with finality: “And my heir shall not have to vie with others for his rightful place.”  

He saw relief and gratitude in Boromir’s expression, tinged with sadness. 

...