13. Day 13: Unraveled (Denethor)
He stares at his son's limp body and feels the remaining threads of what was his own life start to unravel. In the dimness of the room, worsened by fog that rises from the bubbling concoctions the healers have boiling somewhere he cannot see, his eyes fix on his son's knife for what must be the millionth time. He gave him that, he thinks, when he turned twelve. A fitting gift for a warrior it had been, yet Faramir had been happier for the chess set. Whoever brought him home from the fight left it carelessly on the night-stand, unsheathed. It bothers Denethor, that.
Since Faramir came from the field he has endured the veiled glances—accusing, disapproving—of those who still dare to look him in the eye, what few there are among the living. It is harder to endure the scorn of the dead.
And so he braves the stone one more time—wherein lies the peril anymore? He sees her face, the only woman who could ever induce him to lower his guard. Finduilas. He sees her pained face, Boromir's agony, Ecthelion, Adrahil, and that accursed face from his past… anybody, everybody he had ever felt something for sneers at him in derision: For all your zeal you have failed in everything that was ever entrusted to you! Failed to hold the hearts of your men, failed to keep the life of your wife, failed to prevent the fate of one son and rushed unbidden to decree the fate of the other one failed to recognize the signs of the King's coming failed to save Osgiliath failed to keep the White City safe failed to stay the tide of Mordor because against it there is no victory and you failed failed failed failedfailedfailedfailedfailedFAILED!
He curses the Lord of Darkness on the other end and vows that he will not fail in the one thing that is left him from this shambles.
Since Faramir came from the field he has endured the veiled glances—accusing, disapproving—of those who still dare to look him in the eye, what few there are among the living. It is harder to endure the scorn of the dead.
And so he braves the stone one more time—wherein lies the peril anymore? He sees her face, the only woman who could ever induce him to lower his guard. Finduilas. He sees her pained face, Boromir's agony, Ecthelion, Adrahil, and that accursed face from his past… anybody, everybody he had ever felt something for sneers at him in derision: For all your zeal you have failed in everything that was ever entrusted to you! Failed to hold the hearts of your men, failed to keep the life of your wife, failed to prevent the fate of one son and rushed unbidden to decree the fate of the other one failed to recognize the signs of the King's coming failed to save Osgiliath failed to keep the White City safe failed to stay the tide of Mordor because against it there is no victory and you failed failed failed failedfailedfailedfailedfailedFAILED!
He curses the Lord of Darkness on the other end and vows that he will not fail in the one thing that is left him from this shambles.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
