That We Must Forget by Minx

Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976

Ecthelion's heir was said to be a cold and practical young man, a ruthless politician and a calculating warrior. It was said by the more realistic that he would make a good Steward for Gondor in these times when strife seemed a common occurrence. In such times practicality ruled, and matters of the mind ever superseded matters of the heart, even more so when those involved were those that dictated the future of the land.

He was also a handsome man, descended from a noble line. A man of fine bearing and intelligence, albeit with a tendency to scorn rather than sympathise. With Finduilas, he was polite and well-mannered as one who sought a lady's hand in marriage would be.

With Imrahil, he spoke naught that evening.

They had spoken all they had to the evening before standing on the lonely ramparts of his father's castle, after their return from the little hidden cove that they oft frequented. Denethor had told him of all that was transpiring.

"Do you love her?" he regretted the impetuosity behind the words, but they had been said and he could do nothing but await a reply. He was not sure what he wanted to hear.

Denethor looked at him quietly, "I have but met her a short while."

"But long enough to decide her worthy to be your wife, My Lord," his voice was even, and he was surprised to find it took him little effort to speak so.

"She would ever be worthy to be wife. A man would be fortunate to have her by his side," the Steward's voice too was even.

"And where she hails from matters naught?"

"Your meaning eludes me, Prince Imrahil."

"It matters not at all that your betrothed hails from Dol Amroth, My Lord? That her presence by your side is a show of strength like no other? The Steward calls for aid, and the Swan Knights answer immediately!"

"I was under the impression that the Swan Knights would ever aid us in our time of need, My Prince. It takes no marriage to ensure that, does it?"

He turned away, feeling strangely empty. He was not angry. And that concerned him. He should have been, but he was not. He felt instead coldly practical. Denethor needed heirs, he needed heirs. They needed wives to provide those heirs.

And yet, it felt as a cruel trick that the one to provide Denethor his heirs was to be the sister he loved so.

"We are brothers now," he said heavily.

"Yes," Denethor said simply.

"And once we were lovers," he continued quietly.

Denethor said nothing.

"We must forget that," it was half statement, half question and he found himself waiting anxiously to hear the response.

Denethor turned to him, "We must forget that," he said quietly.




Minas Tirith, March 13, T.A. 3019

Forty-three years gone by, and yet he remembered that face as clearly as though it had been the day before.

Until his father's death nine years ago, he had preferred to alternate his duties between the sea and the land. The Steward had never visited Dol Amroth but for once in all these years. In forty-three years, they had met just that once – when Denethor had visited Dol Amroth after Finduilas had died. His grief had been as intense as Imrahil's. He had introduced Denethor to his wife, and his heir, little Elphir.

Over the years, he had seen his nephews oft, young, brave men, as riddled with care as all of them were, for these years had been hard on the realm.

They had all aged. Denethor had aged too, so greatly. He had acknowledged his arrival, four day earlier, murmuring something about how the Swan Knights could help augment the rearguard. It was clear that he was weary. But underneath the lines, and the tiredness, still remained the face Imrahil remembered.

And when those dulled eyes did light up in the Council early that morning, two days ago, they glinted, hardened and bitter, where once they would have gleamed proud. They scorned the younger son who was all that was left of the Steward's family, and an unaccountably saddened Imrahil knew that that man of forty-three years ago had gone. He would have gone, no matter what. The times had been such.

They spoke no more than required. Denethor was as one who had lost all hope. Then the battle caught up with them. And when Imrahil returned to the Steward, it was with Faramir in his arms, a still unmoving Faramir.

He left father and son together, after recounting the young one's brave deeds not without ire at the scene he had witnessed between them earlier. When Denethor spoke, it was not words of justification.




Minas Tirith, March 15, T.A. 3019

He remembered the words as he left Faramir, sleeping peacefully now that the King had healed him.

"I thank you for all you have done," the words sounded formal, yet the tone spoke much more.

"You have always had all of me that you desire. You had but to ask."

"I could not."

"I know."

"It was not to be."

"No."

He had left him by Faramir's side, and then found himself enmeshed in the task of aiding Mithrandir in commanding what was left of the city's defence.




Dol Amroth, T.A. 2976

We must forget

The words seem to echo mockingly in his ears, for he knew they were wise words.

"I do not know if I can."

"It cannot to be."

"No. . . but . . . I must know. Did you - did you – what did this mean – I –," he could not say the words. He could not get himself to ask whether Denethor had ever loved him in those days they spent together.

"It is best we speak of this no more," Denethor said quietly, and Imrahil knew he had understood what he meant to ask.

A part of him was relieved that Denethor had not answered his question. He would not have been able to cope with either answer.

"The sea is beautiful tonight," he said.

"Is it? I have not looked."

He paused at the door, and turning his head just a little said, "You will see her happy I know."

"She shall have no cause for concern."

The waves crashed against the walls down below. He slept little that night. The seas were rough that night.




He had never been able to forget. The memory remained - as it had done for Denethor. It lay ignored, but it lay - unforgotten.
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