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This is the 4th chapter of Forgotten Song. The other chapters are not posted here, because they don't focus on Denethor. But I recommend that you read them at ffnet. [Go here]

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Author's notes:

Now that I started to defend all of the disliked fathers of Middle-earth, I decided to give Denethor a chance to speak his mind about the events, too. Actually, I don't think him to be as cruel and evil as some of my fellow writers - especially the very talented ones who managed to make him look really bad.

There is no problem with that, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and their own take of a character, as long as the stories themselves are good. Nor do I intend to start a heated discussion about Denethor. I'm simply offering my own view of him, and everyone can agree or disagree with me. It's up to you, folks.

The facts to this chapter were taken from the Appendix of ''The Return of the King''.

*asterixes* mean emphasis - these things would be in italics if I would post in html-files; which I don't, because then the letters are so small that it's a pain to read a lengthy story

/slashes/ mean inner thoughts

The footnote numbers are for references in the Appendix that is posted right now, together with this chapter.


CHAPTER FOUR: VEILED FROM PRYING EYES

Many long leagues southwards, upon the out-thrust knee of Mount Mindolluin, Minas Tirith, the Guarded City with her seven walls of stone so strong and old that she seemed to have been not built but craven by the Valar themselves out of the bones of the Earth, was wrapping herself in darkness.

The Guards of the Citadel, dark shadows in the darkness in their black surcoats, the embroidment of the White Tree upon them now invisible, only their winged helms of mithril gleaming in the moonlight, stood at their watchposts, their keen eyes going round and round as it was their duty.

But time and again, their gaze drifted off to the White Tower of Ecthelion, now hardly visible in the deep darkness, save from that pale, eerie light that gleamed and flickered from the narrow windows of the highest chamber for a while, and then flashed and went out.

The Guards exchanged worried looks, for their Lord spent, indeed, an increasing amount of time in that secret room under the summit of the Tower, where no-one had been allowed entrance, not even his own sons; and though the Guards could not guess what the Lord Denethor was doing up there, they were worried. For whenever the Steward descended again, his face was haggard and death-like grey, as if after some long and cruel battle.

Yet there was no-one in Minas Tirith, not the Guards of the Citadel, nor the members of the Council who would dare to ask him any questions, unless he was willing to speak about something of his own will.

High up in the secret chamber, Denethor son of Ecthelion, six and twentieth Ruling Steward of Gondor, leaned back in his high chair and released the Seeing Stone from the iron grip of his unbreakable will, finally admitting defeat. No matter how hard he had tried, the *palantír* was not able to see through the grey mist that had covered the path of his firstborn son.

A hundred and ten days had he followed the long and tiresome journey of his Heir, from Rohan through many barren and empty lands, through perils and bloody skirmishes with Orcs and through chance encounters, til Boromir finally stumbled upon that small company of strange-looking Elves who then led him the right way. Yet as soon as they reached the borders of Imladris, a silvery mist, not unlike a cloud, descended upon them, and not even the *palantír* would penetrate it.

Denethor sighed in disappointment, though he was not overly surprised. He had suspected that the Elf-Lords must have found a way to hide their dwellings from the evil Eye of the Enemy - and thus they kept hidden from other eyes as well. Otherwise he would have fond that valley on his own, due to the simple aid of the Seeing Stone.

Nevertheless, he did not like this turn of events.

Ever since Denethor became Steward, almost a quarter of a century ago, he considered himself a masterful Lord, and as such, he preferred holding the rule of all things in his own hands. To keep his intentions well-hidden, he said little of them, and though he listened to counsel, he laways followed his own mind.

Thus far it proved to be a good path to follow.

Still, after the untimely death of his wife(1) Denethor became even more grim and silent than he had been before, and would sit long alone in this very chamber of the Tower, deep in thought, foreseeing that the assault of Mordor would come in his time. For just as his second son, he had inherited the bitter gift of foresight from his Númenórean ancestors, and often were his dreams haunted by darkness and fire.

Mayhap it would have done him more good to seek out the counsel of one of the wizards, but though he admired - and envied - the skills of Curunír(2), he also was subtle in mind and looked further and deeper than other Men in these lesser days, and he did not trust the Master of Isengard.

As for Mithrandir, the other wizard who often visited Minas Tirith in the days of Ecthelion, there was little love between him and Denethor, for the Steward trusted him even less than he trusted Curunír, suspecting some secret plot from the side of the Grey Pilgrim, and it angered him beyond measure that his yougner son seemed so enchanted by him.

So Denethor was left to his own counsel, and needing knowledge but being proud and trusting in his own strength of will, he dared to look in the *palantír* of the White Tower. No-one of the other Stewards had dared to do this, nor even the last Kings, Eärnil and Eärnur, after the fall of Minas Ithil, when the *palantír* of Isildur came into the hands of the Enemy; for the Stone of Minas Tirith was the *palantír* of Anárion(3), most close in accord with the one that now the Dark Lord possessed.

But Denethor was a Man of extraordinary willcraft; and, as the Ruling Steward of the House of Anárion, it was well within his right to use the Stone. And so he did, and was even strong-willed enough to bend the Stone to his own will, and in this way he gathered great knowledge of things that passed in his realm and far beyond his borders.

Yet though Men marvelled such a knowledge, it was bought dearly; for Denethor aged before his time by his contest with the will of the Dark Lord. For, indeed, all the events of his days seemed an endless combat in his eyes, a combat between the Lord of the White Tower and the Lord of Barad-dúr, and mercilessly driven had he himself and his two sons in order to win this combat - or to dely the inevitable defeat.

For what he saw in the *palantír* gave him no hope for victory. Orc-hords did he see, roaming the black hills of Mordor like ants; and great hosts of the curel Haradrim, marching towards Gondor on the back of their great *múmaks*; and huge fleets of black ships sailing towards Pelargir; and giant, winged beasts in the sky, carrying the Nameless Fear high above the heads of helpless Men. And beyond all this, the great Eye, framed with dark fire, was watching.

Grim pictures of the upcoming defeat they were the *palantír* kept showing him, and Denethor spent an increasing length of time meditating the downfall of his land and his House, pondering where he himself or one of his sires might have made a grave error that caused the very begin of this fall.

It was a long tale, full of blood and war, indeed.

It was in the days of Turgon, his father's father(4), that the Enemy arose again, declaring imself openly; and he re-entered Mordor, long prepared for him. Denethor now could see the well-thought scheme of the Dark Lord, who distreacted his greatest foe with sending the Haradrim against Gondor, and while the Stewards were occupied with the southern peril, Barad-dúr was raised once more.

And then, two days before Turgon's death(5), Mount Doom burst into flame again, and the last of the folk of Ithilien fled far away. And ever since the people of Minas Tirirth had lived under the shadow of the dark, poisonous clouds that hung densely above the Black Fields of Mordor - a darkness that not only stained the eastward skies but clouded their hearts as well.

After Turgon's death Curunír took Isengard for his own and fortified it. And though Denethor found it at first comforting that the great watchtower was in the hand of a powerful ally, he still disliked the fact that this ally was in no way sworn to the service of the Stewards - and he seemed altogether a little too powerful for Denethor's comfort.

But he did not confront his father about the wizard, for their relationship had been strained at best as it was. Ecthelion was a man of wisdom, and with what power was left to him, he began to strengthen his realm against the assault of Mordor, for he had no doubt that sooner or later it would come. With this Denethor wholeheartedly agreed, but to his great dismay, his father also encouraged all Men of worth from near of far to enter his service, and to those who proved trustworthy, he gave rank and regard.

Denethor often voiced his dislike about his father filling the court with strangers, no matter how able they might be, and leaving the old, well-proved families of Gondor out of consideration. Small wonder that many of the blood of Westernesse left the City in dismay and returned to their lands in Lossornach or Lebennin or orther parts of Gondor, and more and more great old houses and courts in the upper circles of the City were abandoned and started to decay.

But Ecthelion never listened to the concerns of his son, choosing instead to follow the counsel of one captain, who came to him from Rohan, from the service of King Thengel, though not one of the Rohirrim himself. No-one knew who this captain truly was; not his true name, nor in what land he was born, though all could see that he was from the blood of Westernesse, too, for he was tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed, as only the Men of Númenórean blood could be; and the Men in Gondor called him Thorongil(6), for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak.

Ever since this haughty stranger set foot into his father's court, Denethor's life became one of bitter competition, for though he was a proud and valiant man, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of Men - and above all these, he was wise also, and far-sighted and learned in lore -, ever was he placed second to Thorongil in the hearts of Men and the esteem of his own father.

This filled his heart with bitter wrath against this stranger who seemed to possess the trust not only the Steward but that of that shrewd wizard, Mithrandir, too, and Denethor could not shake off the thought that Mithrandir had something to do with the spell the stranger seemed to have every one in Minas Tirith under.

What else could have made Ecthelion value a mere captain, and a homeless strider to that, higher than his only son(7)? Denethor knew his own worth, and he knew as well, that never had he brought shame upon his father, neither in battle nor in council; indeed, many of the Kings of old even would have been proud to have a son and Heir like him: faithful to his Lord and father and determined to defend his land at any costs.

Why, then, did Ecthelion prefer one of his servants to his own Heir? This was a question that had tormented Denethor all his life, and moved him to do some thorough research on the end of the North-kingdom. And though he found naught that could confirm his suspicions, he doubted not that Thorongil, or what ever his true name might have been, must be of very high birth, indeed.

There were no records in the secret library of the Stewards left that would tell aught about the fate of that ragged House, long bereft of lordship and dignity. If any one of that line was still alive, they most likely served other Lords: those who *were* able to keep their lands and their reign. Yet Mithrandir's involvement with this... Thorongil let him suspect a secret plan to supplant the Stewards who had ruled Gondor for hundreds of years with devotion and kept the land safe, with some late offspring of a fallen House that had proved unable and unworthy to reign.

/Not in *my* life, they would not/, thought Denethor grimly, descending from the secret chamber to his office again. /*My* heart is not infested with the folly of my father, and I shall never bend my knee before any ursurper from the North. Ere would I die by my own hand! *I am* the rightful Lord of this City, in peace or in war alike, and I shall leave my chair to a son after me, who is his own master!/

He sat behind his desk to study some of the reports that came in during the day and sighed, unable to focus, for his mind was elswhere: following his sons, both of which were far away and both of which he loved very much, no matter what other people might think - no matter that most of the time he was unable to show it.

For indeed, the sons whom gentle Finduilas gave him were the only lights in his long and hard life, and watching them growing to manhood the only joy that sweetened his days spent with the bitter tasks of never-ending duty. Boromir, five years the elder, was like him in face and pride, but little else, and mayhap this was the reason Denethor loved him so much.

Boromir was a man after the sort of King Eärnur of old: fearless and strong but caring little for lore, save the tales of old battles, though his father made him learn other things, too, which he held for important. Some thought the Heir of the Steward would find delight in arms, but Denethor knew better. He knew that his firstborn loathed the war, for he hated to see his land ruined and its people suffering.

Yet his own honour allowed him not to sit in the safety of Minas Tirirth while others bled on the battlefields, not as long as he was able to wield a sword to protect those whose life was entrusted to him. And though he was in endless anguish for his life, Denethor admired his son even more for this.

Yet in spite of his love, Denethor was not blind to his Heir's faults. He feared that his pride (that he inherited from his father) would be his downfall one day. That and his honesty that made him believe that other people would be just as honest to him.

Oh, if only Denethor could have relied upon his younger son! Faramir was so much alike him: he read the hearts of Men as shrewdly as his father and was a lover of lore - *and* gifted with foresight, too. He could have stood behind the throne of his brother, supporting him with counsel and useful insight, and between the two of them Gondor could have flourished, despite the grave danger threatening from the East.

But alas! Faramir was not hard enough to use for the good of Gondor what he learnt from the minds of Men, for it moved him to pity rather than scorn; and he fell under the spell of Mithrandir early on, and became the wizard's pupil, eager to learn what he could from him, to the great dismay of his father, who could have taught him just as well, would he have asked.

How could Denethor trust his second-born ever again?

It saddened him greatly, for so he could not let Boromir be influenced by his brother's judgements any longer, and now he had to break them apart by force, regardless the love that had been between his sons since childhood. For though no jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them ever, not for their father's favour nor for the praise of men, Faramir now was not his own master any more, and no-one could truly tell if he could be freed from the wizard's spell, ever.

This was the most bitter disappointment of Denethor's life, worse even than the one about his father's heart turning towards a stranger. For he had laid great hopes upon Faramir's gifts and how they could have served Gondor and the reign of his brother; but now the most he could still hope for was his second son staying faithful to his own father.

And even that seemed doubtful to him.

Yet even more shaken he was, when by chance he detected Boromir's hidden feelings towards his own brother. Indeed, he almost lost his mind in his wrath and utter shame. That such a dirty thing could have stained the blood of his House was something he never thought of, not even in his worst nightmares.(8)

Now he understood why Boromir had taken no wife yet (though in families of high Númenórean birth it was custom to wed at a mature age; he did so himself9), why he reacted so badly to his father's proposal to wed Éowyn of Rohan, why he was never seen in the company of women, save the rare occasions in the court when he could not avoid it. And given the closeness between the brothers, Denethor began to fear that they might give in to the temptation, even though Faramir seemed not to return his brother's feelings.

This was why Denethor started prying upon his Heir through the Seeing Stone, and this was, too, why he finally decided to let him go and seek out Imladris. Not that the need of Gondor would not be dire enough; they fought with their backs against the wall, and if *Isildur's Bane* should be some great weapon of the Enemy reappearing, Gondor was its first likely target. So, the counsels that should be held in Imladris might prove vital for Gondor, indeed.

But the true reason he sent his firstborn away was to put a great distance between him and the subject of his sick desire. Mayhap the long and perilous journey shall give him the time to relect upon his misguided feelings, now, that they were revealed, and consider what his duty towards his land and his House demanded from him.

The encounter between him and the Lady Éowyn was, at least, a small reason for hope. They seemed to come to an understanding. Alas, the Seeing Stone gave sight alone, though the Steward would like very much to know what his son and the gold-haired shieldmaiden of the North were talking about(10). Nevertheless, Éowyn seemed strong enough to handle Boromir's tempers - and fair above all words even in the Ancient Tongue of the Elves. So there was hope that she would even win the heart of him some day. Boromir respected strength and was not blind to beauty.

Yet now he had vanished from the sight of the *palantír*, hidden by the silver veil of Elven magic, and Denethor felt bone-weary from the long and bitter struggle with the Stone. For as the power of the Enemy grew, it became increasingly difficult to bend the *palantír* to his own will - yet he could not avoid it. He needed the far-sight the Stone gave him, now, that all his well-thought plans seemed to fail, more than ever.

He threw the reports aside. He would read them in the morrow; one night should not bear too great a significance. For now, he would return to the House of the Stewards, to his cold and empty bed that he had shared with no-one since his wife died, and try to rest. Mayhap if Finduilas had not left them so untimely, things could have taken a different turn. Or if he, himself, could have made his love more apparent, his sons had not tried to find comfort elswhere.

But it was too late for regrets already. He was who he was, and he could not change the cold hardness of his demeanor - or his heart. What he could offer was never enough. Not for his father, not Finduilas, who withered and faded away between the stone walls of the Guarded Gity and the cold hand of her husband... not even for his sons who meant everything to him.

An overwhelming feeling of utter defeat weighed upon his heart as he left the White Tower.



And here this tale now truly endeth