Minas Tirith, October 2988
In the middle of the night, Finduilas suddenly awoke. Turning to her side, she saw that her lord was still awake.
“Finduilas? Do you need anything?”
She shook her head. In fact, she felt better than she had in a long time. She knew this would not last, and intended to make the most of her strength while it did.
She moved closer, resting her head against her husband’s chest.
“Do you know, my lord, I regret nothing,” she said softly.
Denethor caressed her hair. “Not even young Tuor and his mansion at Belfalas?”
Finduilas laughed. “You will never let me forget that, will you?”
“Nay, I will not let myself forget that you chose me over him.”
She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Aye, I chose you, Denethor, and this beautiful City, and the looming Shadow, over another man and a peaceful life at Belfalas. Had I been given another chance to choose, I would still have done the same.”
Denethor’s brow furrowed, and his voice trembled. “I wish I could say the same.”
“Do not misunderstand,” he continued. “I have never regretted our lives together. I am grateful to be with you, be it for long years or a short while. But I cannot cast aside the thought that you might have lived blissfully had you not chosen to come here.”
“What use is there in pondering what might have been, husband?”
Denethor nodded, and they kissed.
“Have you any fear?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Death is the Gift of Men. I will receive it with courage and a smile,” she said. “Despite his terrible Doom, I believe the Lord Mandos is merciful.”
“Only you, vanima, would say that of the Doomsman of Arda.”
“Just as I am the only one who says the Steward of Gondor is kind,” Finduilas replied. “But I am not making light of death. The judgement each of us must face—I think that will be painful, though not in a physical sense.”
“To see ourselves as we are, to be made aware of our failings, you mean? Aye, that will be painful.”
“But since death and judgement is ordained for Men by our Maker, even if there is pain, it would be bearable and serve a purpose,” she replied.
Denethor smiled, remembering a time early in their courtship, when they debated the discourse of Finrod and Andreth, with Denethor taking Andreth’s part (and some of the bitterness) while Finduilas affirmed the Elf-lord's view.
Denethor kissed the top of her head, cherishing her presence.
“I wrote letters for Boromir and Faramir, to be read... after,” she said.
“I will give them the letters,” Denethor said slowly. The thought of doing so saddened him, but who else would? “Will I receive one as well?”
“I intended to, but as I began, I wondered—what good could it do? All I write seems hollow.”
“Even if you write only your name, I will treasure the letter.”
She smiled and turned to face him. Raising herself slightly, she traced his face with her fingers, then covered it with kisses.
He sighed, with longing and concern. “It will not tire you overmuch?” he asked cautiously.
She placed a finger on his lips, silencing his worries.
That night they cleaved to each other—all pretences, regrets, doubts and worries shed away with their garments. A man and a woman with naught between them; love overflowing through their bodies as they gave themselves to one another.
For some time she had not liked him to see her unclad, for she had been ashamed of her thinned body. But that night, shame had no place between them. And when he looked at her and told her she was beautiful, she knew he meant it.
He found her beautiful, for he saw one who had been so assailed by the Shadow that her body paid the price, yet chose to stay near the Shadow, for his sake.
With every touch, he lavished his love on her—for soon she would embark on a journey where he could not protect her; he would give her his all, while he still could. That night, all thoughts of seeking pleasure seemed to him foreign and low.
She summoned all her love and tenderness and poured it out on him—for he would have to endure life without her; she wished to give him warmth that might console him, if only a little.
In the quiet after, as they lay entwined, Denethor felt peace—a fleeting respite from the weight of the world outside. But as dawn would inevitably break, so too would their doom. He tried to etch this moment into his memory, to carry her with him through the darkness that lay ahead.
A few weeks later she died peacefully in her sleep, without saying farewell to him. But there was no need, for they had spoken and heard all they needed to.
She did leave him a letter. It was like their life together: sweet but too short.
...
My lord,
Do you remember the letter I sent with my picture, where I grandly proclaimed that time with her swift wings shall not overtake my devotion to you?
It seems so long ago, yet it also feels as near as yesterday. Forgive me if I still have the audacity to say the same, for my devotion remains steadfast, even if I am not present to show it.
I shall not burden you with requests for forgiveness for leaving you and our sons, for my failure to be stronger. You have the right to resent me for this.
I do not need to ask you to be a good father to our sons, for I know that you will be. You will guide them with your strength and wisdom. The foresight I had of our son, only a noble father could have raised such a man. Cherish them, protect them, and when they are grown, let them share some of your burdens.
If our sons should displease you in some matters, my lord, grant them your understanding. They are young, and is it not the lot of parents to see their children choose their own paths?
I will not insult you by advising you to take another wife. To any other men I might, but not to you. For one, you do not need my permission to do so. And knowing your heart, how completely you have given it, how could I so lightly say to give it to another?
It will be hard on you, I know. It may take years for the pain to fade.
Take heart, my lord, and do not give in to despair. O, I am one to speak, am I not? I, who could not hold onto my joy, despite loving you and our sons. But you will be stronger than I.
Do not be too proud to seek aid from others, I beseech you. Pride can be perilous, and this is your only failing—the only thing which has made me worry about you, dear husband. Remember Turgon and the fall of Gondolin.
Endure, beloved, and in no time, the years will pass, you will find you can smile again—though grimly, I imagine—our sons will be grown, you will have lived your full years, and then, we will be together again, in the Hall of Mandos, or beyond this world.
I have been very happy in the brief years we have shared. If you have found even half as much joy, and that has strengthened you in carrying out your duty, I would count my life worthwhile.
Written in Minas Tirith, 2988
Finduilas wife of Denethor
...
Acknowledgement:
Finduilas’ letter in the Prologue was inspired by the letter of Princess Elizabeth (the future Queen Elizabeth I) to her brother, King Edward VI. Her letters can be found in this website: https://www.elizabethfiles.com/resources/letters-of-elizabeth-i/