Note: Although I have followed the book very closely, I have made Denethor a man in his thirties at the time of Faramir’s birth, and not a man in his fifties, as Tolkien writes. This is therefore Non-canon.

“I am not going to live much longer and I wish he were here to help you,” said Lord Ecthelion II, of Gondor.

He was talking to his son of the mysterious ‘Thorongil’ who had served him with great loyalty and courage for a great many years. The Steward of Gondor thought of the tall man with the kingly face and dignified demeanour, who had served him so well. And then he looked at his son. Compared to his memory of Thorongil, his son looked mean, puny and vicious.

The Steward of Gondor sighed, thinking that it was indeed fortunate that his son could not read his mind. But his son sensed what he was thinking and hated him for it. It was unfair, thought Denethor, so terribly unfair that his father, whom he admired so greatly, should think so little of him. His eyes flashed pure venom at his father.

“I do not see why you should hold Thorongil in such high esteem, father. I am, perhaps, not all that you wish me to be. But I would never do anything so cowardly and dishonourable as to attack a harbour city by night and burn its people alive in their sleep.”

“My son, these are hard times and we must do what we can to protect ourselves from the Shadow that draws ever nearer… Soon, the responsibility will be yours. And how I wish you had someone strong and loyal to help you, as Thorongil helped me.”

“I trust that you did not summon me to your presence simply to talk of Thorongil’s greatness,” asked Denethor, with mock politeness.

“Indeed, I did not,” said Lord Ecthelion. “But since you repeatedly try to provoke me to anger, again and again…”
Denethor bowed, a sarcastic smile on his lips. Lord Ecthelion acknowledged his bow with a nod.
“…and since you are not in the mood to have a serious discussion with me on the affairs of state, we will defer our discussion to a later time.”

Denethor bowed low.
“As you wish, father,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” said Lord Ecthelion. Denethor waited.
“How is your little one? How is Faramir? It must be wonderful for you to be a father again.”

Oh yes, thought Denethor. It’s wonderful to have another sphincterless, slobbering infant about the place, just to make sure that my wife has no time at all for me.

Sometimes, when she was busy with their sons, he wanted Finduilas. He wanted her so much, he could have cried.

“Yes, it’s wonderful, father.”

Noting the sarcasm in Denethor’s voice, Lord Ecthelion looked at him in surprise. Had his son no finer feelings at all? What objection could he possibly have to being a father? What could he have against an innocent infant, barely a few months old?

The Steward of Gondor looked rather sadly at his son.
“You may go, my son.”

“Thank you, father,” said Denethor with elaborate courtesy, and left the room.

Denethor ran up the spiral stairs to the top of Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun.

He sometimes felt that the room at the top of the tower was the only place he had to himself in this whole blasted citadel. He paced about the room angrily, the hot sun blazing down through the wide windows on his flushed cheeks.

Denethor reflected that to make himself miserable, all he had to do was to spend five minutes with his father. His father made him fell like a piece of filth on the floor, or a dead insect squashed on a wall.

The people of Gondor thought of their beloved Lord as a good person, even a great person. But would a truly great person make his son feel like this? Of course not. Of course not. He felt so puny, weak and helpless. Was there no-one or nothing to help him become powerful and strong?

Here was the future Steward of Gondor, stumbling around the palantir of Anarion in a blind rage… The palantir of Anarion. Denethor stopped and looked at it. This was, after all, a legitimate weapon used by the great Anarion to help defend his realm. It had gathered to Elendil’s heir all the knowledge that gave him his power…

And it was here in the Tower of the Sun. It was his to use, if he wished it.

Denethor opened the covers and tentatively ran a shaking hand over the hard, smooth surface of the seeing stone. It was dark, lifeless. He nervously closed his eyes, hesitant to look into the depths of the palantir. He felt like a child on the brink of a dark abyss, too frightened to look down into it.

He thought he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the tower – he wasn’t sure. Denethor hurriedly pulled the covers back over the stone. He turned his back to the door and gazed unseeingly out of the window, his fists clenched. He tried unsuccessfully to compose himself, to calm himself down. The footsteps did not appear to be coming up the tower after all, but he did not uncover the palantir again. The hands that gripped the sill were shaking – trembling…

“My Lord…”
The voice was quiet, respectful.
“Yes?”
“My Lord, the Lady Finduilas requests your help…”
“My help?”
“Yes, my Lord.

The young messenger scuttled away before he could be questioned further. The Lord Denethor’s flashing eyes had terrified him.

to be continued…

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