Heaven help us, I've written more LOTR fic! The only thing I didn't absolutely adore about Peter Jackson's "The Return of the King" that I'm not confident will be fixed in the extended edition was Denethor's death. I'm not saying Denethor's is a nice man, or even a good man, and he's absolutely horrible to poor Faramir, but I don't think the movie quite did justice to this character who is so vivid to me from the books. That's not to say that I'm doing him justice either - just that I'm quite interested in his motivations for being such an awful father.

Anyway - long story short - because I am absolutely insane, I decided to write a series of drabbles about that terrible dysfunctional first family of Gondor all told from Denethor's POV - so here they are.

adjrun was the most fabulous and wonderful beta possible for a different earlier version of this story, and all of her comments were incorporated into this version. See? I can actually take criticism gracefully, especially when it's delivered from the right person ;)

Title: "Seven Stars and Seven Stones"
Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Faramir
Summary: Denethor looks back at his life


"Seven Stars and Seven Stones"
The seeing stone shows Denethor black armies massing under distant stars. It shows him that Gondor is alone, a failing bulwark against the malice of Mordor. He sees the dead White Tree ablaze in the bonfire that is Minas Tirith. He struggles to pull away from the fiery Eye before its gaze can pierce stone and flesh to learn his secret thoughts.

He knows the danger, but each night the ones he loved smile at him from the depths of the palantir. He remembers that long ago, he knew light that did not burn and laughter that was not cruel.

***

Denethor first sees Finduilas at a banquet in her father’s castle by the sea. She is clad in midnight blue and her brother guards her like a jewel of incalculable price. She has stars in her eyes and sunlight in her smile and her name is music. Denethor knows he will wed no woman but this swan princess. He will wait if he must. He has long schooled himself in patience.

The pride of the Steward’s House is nothing to her father, who counts his descent from the Elves. He is not best pleased when Finduilas makes her choice.

***

There is, for once, no duty Denethor must perform. He finds Finduilas in the gardens set high above the city. She comes here often to watch the river and Denethor wonders whether she still longs for the distant sea.

She bends over the baby, tickling him with a stalk of lavender. The sunlight limns each blade of grass and turns the pale hair of his son’s head into a halo of gold. Boromir’s soft hands grasp the plaything with unexpected strength, and he laughs at his mother, his dimpled face beaming with delight. Denethor surrenders his heart without a struggle.

***

Boromir and Finduilas belong to Denethor alone. He need not share their love, as he was forced to share his own father’s regard with a stranger. He has earned this joy, as he did not earn the honors due his father’s son. He needs no others.

Others intrude whether he wills it or not. Finduilas bears a second son and not long afterwards, Denethor notices that a shadow mars the brightness of her eyes. The physicians assure Denethor that the baby did not cause the mother’s illness, but in his heart he cannot forgive Faramir for destroying his perfect happiness.

***

Boromir stands next to the body, silent for once, his ready smile quenched. Denethor’s eyes burn but he cannot weep.

“Where is mother? Why has she gone away?”

Faramir’s words sear Denethor’s heart. Unthinking, he clenches his fist to silence this importunate child. Boromir steps between them as the blow falls. He sways but he stays on his feet and without a word, he takes his brother’s hand and walks away. The next day the mark of the Steward’s ring is a dull red in the center of the dark swelling on Boromir’s jaw.

Denethor never strikes his sons again.

***

Faramir watches, counting the strokes under his breath, as Boromir learns to wield a sword. When Faramir breaks his arm falling from a horse, Boromir grips his brother’s hand while the surgeons set the bone. He boasts to Denethor that Faramir bore the pain without a murmur.

Denethor prides himself on being a just ruler. He knows it is unjust to seek victory over a child. Yet when Boromir praises Faramir’s courage, or smiles at something his brother has said, a sourness rises in Denethor’s throat. He cannot refrain from wielding the words he has honed to a cutting edge.

***

“Faramir shot a bird in mid-flight,” Boromir says.

Denethor raises an eyebrow. “An impressive feat for one so young.”

Faramir flushes in pleasure and a radiant smile lights Boromir’s face. For a heartbeat, Denethor sees their mother in them. Perhaps this is what goads him to continue.

“Arrows are the weapons of a coward,” he says. “You would do better to learn swordsmanship, like your brother.”

Faramir’s voice trembles as he excuses himself from the table. Boromir waits to speak until his brother is out of earshot. “Why, father?” he says.

Denethor cannot answer. They finish their meal in silence.

***

When Boromir is twenty-one, he is named Captain of the White Tower. Resplendent in sable and silver, he kneels and swears his oaths to an empty throne. His father thinks Boromir could be the heir of Elendil. But Denethor can bestow no winged crown on his son, only a horn of bone.

That night Denethor dreams that Boromir and Finduilas are drowning. Finduilas floats away without a struggle, her fingers grazing Denethor’s for but a moment. Boromir’s grip is like iron. Heedless of Denethor’s struggles, he pulls his father down into the depths where sunlight is but a distant rumor.

***

Boromir wears no helm in battle, so that his men may always recognize their captain. The soldiers call him Boromir the Bold. That name makes his father shudder. It is long since Denethor rode out to Gondor’s wars, but he recalls how a body can be broken. Boldness is no shield against an axe to the skull.

His own father warned him that the Palantir was to be used only for Gondor’s direst need. In the grey hours before dawn, Denethor does not remember whether it is Gondor’s need or his own that has driven him to the seeing stone.


***

It is as it was when they were boys. Their laughter ceases when Denethor arrives. As ever, Faramir hungers for praise that he has not earned. Boromir thinks that his father does not notice how he sighs and squares his shoulders, as though Denethor’s presence is a burden. But it is no matter. Boromir has never failed Denethor and he will not do so now.

Gondor has won a great victory at Osgiliath, but Denethor has seen that there is only one thing that will save their people from the coming darkness.

“Bring me back this mighty gift,” he says.

***

In late summer, Boromir crosses the borders of Gondor and passes from his father’s sight. Denethor wonders if the Enemy has cast spells to blind the seeing stone. Or perhaps it is Elvish magic to hide the Ring and the one who carries it.

Many months later, echoes of a distant, desperate horn call come down to the city from the North. Does Boromir summon aid in battle from a fickle ally? Or were the sounds some trick of the wind? Denethor’s unease grows as the Palantir refuses to bend to his will.

There is no news for thirteen days.

***

The south wind carries the promise of spring even into the hall of the kings, but when Denethor pulls away the rough cloth from the errand-rider’s bundle, he knows that winter will never end. He touches the tarnished silver and stained ivory with a steady hand, and keeps his voice as hard as the bands of ice that grip his heart. Other, lesser, men must not presume to pity him.

He waits until the torches gutter and then he climbs to the tower room, as he has done each night since Boromir rode from Osgiliath without bidding his father farewell.

***

“Do you wish our places had been exchanged?” Faramir asks. “Do you wish I had died and Boromir had lived?”

Denethor wishes that he had died ere he sent his son to perish among strangers in a faraway land. For Boromir’s life, he would exchange Faramir and every man in this city and he would not count the cost. But there is nothing left of his son save the shards of a broken heirloom.

Pain so great cannot be endured alone. This time Boromir is not here to take the blow meant for his brother.

“Yes,” Denethor says. “I do.”

***

Night after night, the seeing stone taunts Denethor. It shows him Boromir dying - his hair matted with sweat, his tunic sodden with blood, his eyes dark with despair.

When Denethor sees the body at the foot of the White Tree, he thinks his dreams have pursued him into the daylight. But when he hurries down the steps, it is Faramir who lies unconscious, his armor pierced by many arrows.

It seems Denethor must drain his cup of sorrow to the bitter dregs. Finduilas gave him two sons to cherish and he has sent both of them to their deaths.

***

The gates of the city have fallen and the fires are spreading. Soon there will be nothing left save orcs feasting on the bodies of the dead.

Denethor will not let the creatures of the Enemy desecrate the bones of those whom he has loved. Finduilas is safe, dust buried under stone. Boromir is gone, entrusted to the uncertain mercy of the sea.

But there is one still left. In death, if in nothing else, Denethor will do his duty to Faramir. The pyre is stacked high. The flames will be swifter, and the end kinder than Denethor has deserved.