Title: Fade Author: Lady Ash (Lady_Ash770@hotmail.com) Pairing: Denethor/Gandalf Rating: R Summary: So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Warnings: Strong BDSM-themes, heavy angst. And present tense, as I know some people just hate that. A/N: Inspired by a plot bunny posted by Milly over at the LoM message boards: "Hey, if you want bdsm slash with Denethor why not take *Gandalf* as the dom?". She did mean it as a joke, but once I started thinking about it I couldn't stop, so here we are. Thanks Milly! Timeline: Movie-verse, movie-canon. A few tidbits, such as the palantír, are added from the book, but I lay no claim on following book canon. Disclaimer: Neither the characters nor most of the situations nor much anything is mine. No profit made. Dialogue is more or less directly from the movie (thanks to Noora for transcript). ***************************************************** The room is full of grey morning light as Denethor rolls down from his bed, hitting the stone floor quite hard and blinking the sleep from his eyes when he sits up. His head is spinning. He contemplates crawling back onto the bed, to get some more sleep, but it has abandoned him, in a heartbeat, if it ever was there to begin with. He doesn't remember sleeping much, but he does remember flinging himself over the edge for some reason that seemed perfectly sensible at the time. He closes his eyes, draws with his hands over his face to get rid of a few irritating shreds of hair, and leans towards the side of his bed. The floor is cold through his thin nightclothes, and through the window he can hear the sounds of the city waking up - people shouting to each other in the street, the neighing of a horse, someone fetching water from the well in the courtyard. The noise stings his ears, the soft morning sun penetrating the window stings his eyes and Denethor fights a sudden urge to throw up. He longs for the darkness, the cool quiet of the night - and is absurdly relieved that it is over. His headache slowly returns to pound just beneath his forehead with every heartbeat, but that is only to be expected. In the corner, fleeing if he tries to look straight at it, sits a red burning eye. It has been sitting there all night, all day, and if he tries to leave the room it follows him. It has been for a long time now, and Denethor cannot even remember when it first appeared. He can ignore it for times, but it never really goes away. It is stretching its tentacles of light towards him even now, Denethor can feel it, but he ignores it, as he always does. He knows what it wants. But Denethor has only one Master, and he isn't listening to the eye's call. Denethor has only one hand that caresses him in the depths of the dark, only one finger that traces pain over his aching body and levitates him and makes him explode a thousand times. He doesn't want anything else. Will never want anything else. He ignores the eye, as always, and it goes away. He knows that it does not really exist. He knows that nothing really exists. * *King.* The word echoes hollow towards him, the shrill sound of a blade falling and hitting the stone floor. A bad sound, a highly unpleasant one. *I am no king*, he replies. *I am but a steward. I live to serve.* *Live to serve*, it mocks. He swallows, leaning against the throne, and tries to find the memories that guard him. They aren't there, not in their vividness, only as a numb picture of a face swimming above him in the dark as his body is- Is what? Denethor concentrates, tries to find it. Is screaming, with every inch of it, aching and hurting and screaming at him that it can't take it, but still he keeps taking it and the triumph at this is enough to shatter him as he takes more, *more*-- Yes, that is it, and it is good. Denethor lets out the air he has been holding in his lungs. It is still there, alive, in the depths of him, and it seems to wash over him like a cleansing flood. Like it always did. *I live to serve *you**, he thinks to the memory of the man, to soft, always kind eyes, to long grey hair falling forward to tickle his chest. *You are my everything. I'm yours. I give you everything... So why aren't you here?* Despair overtakes him, again, at that. Why isn't his Master here? Why doesn't he understand that Denethor needs him, will always need him? Now more than ever? *He doesn't care about you.* Denethor starts. That is not true, he firmly assures them both, no one has ever cared for him as his Master does. Gandalf the Grey is a soothing, calming hand on his forehead when he has screamed his lungs out, he is arms to rest in afterwards until he finally can breathe again, he is softness and compassion and love unlike anything Denethor has ever experienced. He *cares*. He cares with the innermost part of his being, the fact that he cares is everything, in every gesture, every word, every moment in his presence and in every stroke of pain he delivers. And Denethor needs it. He aches for it. *But if he really did care, wouldn't he be here?* Denethor shuffles up from his seat, tears through the hall, but the question has attached itself to him and he drags it behind. He turns to the left, pulls at his hair which is again in his face, pushes himself against the wall but the question doesn't leave. It should leave, Denethor knows, in fact, it should not be here to begin with, because its snug implications are wrong, sickening. Because Denethor *remembers*. He *knows*. He knows that he, Denethor, is not the only being in his Master's care. Gandalf the Grey is also Master of earth, of forests and hills and mountains, he shares their soul, he holds a power superior to anything Denethor can imagine. He has felt that power, he has been wrapped up in it and had it beating around and within his heart in moments of deepest intimacy. He knows that Gandalf the Grey never can stay. He remembers the silent agreement the two of them made a long time ago. *I know. I know you have other responsibilities. I know you have other duties. I can bear it, to see you ride away now, because I know you will return. When you can. I do not hold you, I never will, never could. I would not want to. Not you... how could I ever hold someone like you? You who are not even human? You are something else entirely, you defy all description, you are wind and earth and you walk paths we mortals will never know. Sun, wind, stars - you will return, and I am waiting for you here, I am always waiting, how could I ever not wait, oh I am so grateful for you, to have gotten to know you, how you feel in me, around me...* That is what he has thought endless times as he has watched his Master leave Minas Tirith, galloping away over the fields far down below his window. Denethor remembers also those times when he has walked in the forest, felt the presence of trees and water and the grass growing under his feet, the forest forming a shielding roof over his head, and thought of his Master. Has closed his eyes, has had the power wrapping him in, the power of life and growth and silent clearings deep in the woods. Has felt so small and insignificant compared to the forces of nature all around him, but still he is a part of the whole, and maybe, maybe he can allow himself to feel at little more important than tree and root and grass, and he is so proud, oh so proud, to have known him and felt him, his Master. Because of all living creatures in this wide and wondrous world he is selected, chosen, by his Master, *he* has been close to him in the dark hours of the night, and when he thinks of this shivers run all over his body. But the memories aren't opening to him now - or rather, they do, but there is nothing behind them, no overwhelming power to wash away all doubt. They are empty, and Denethor stares at them, feeling nothing. *Boromir.* The image flashes before his eyes, of a lifeless body wrapped in a cloak bearing the White Tree of Gondor. Pale flesh, clammy, drained of all blood and life by long days on the river - the image cuts at him, sharp and painful. Denethor closes his eyes. *No, not that.* It disappears. He takes a deep breath, relieved. It hasn't happened, after all, it is just an other image. He has a lot of them these days, and he doesn't trust half of them. He walks back over to the throne, sits down, takes an other deep breath, and waits for something else to come. Something true this time, he begs, and watches the walls of Minas Tirith fall, shatter to pieces as large boulders hits them. People are screaming, silently. Is this true, then, he wonders? Has this happened, or is it just bound to happen? The eye is watching him, sparkling gleefully and watching him so cold and silent at the same time, and Denethor shivers, because he knows that the breaking is its doing. Dark Lord. Sauron. One of the few beings left with power and strength to rival his Master - but no, that is not a path Denethor ever is to walk. He is faithful to his Master, will always be, and if he ever had a look in that palantír-- Why, it was just curiosity, he was bored, he did not mean anything by it, certainly not *that*... And Denethor knows the Dark Lord, he has felt him, too. But will never serve him, spits in his face. Hasn't he spent most of his life in his shadow? Hasn't he fought him, as bravely as anybody can expect, hasn't he guarded the realms of men as well as he could? Is it his fault that there is power in Mordor that no man, no shield and no sword and no army, ever can withstand? *You may take the realms of men, but you will never have me, I will never be yours because I serve the light, and I'm *his**-- *His*, not Sauron's, and that is his pride, that is all Denethor has left. There is a guard then, in that very moment, bursting in and telling him that *Mithrandir* is coming. Denethor flies up from his seat, wild hope overtaking his heart. Hope that somehow his Master has heard his pleas though time and space and eternity, and knows everything, will reward him for his loyalty, will make everything right again. Because now he is coming, he is finally coming back, and for the shortest of moments, Denethor knows that everything will be fine-- Then he remembers. *Boromir.* And when he comes, Gandalf the Grey is clothed in white and nothing is the way it used to be anymore. * *King. King.* It is beating in his head, urging his headache on. *King.* It is the sound of a crown dropping in a cave deep under the mountains, resounding though the eternities. Denethor shakes his head, to get rid of the echoes. It drops. Again. Again, and Denethor doesn't understand it, and it won't stop. In his hand, he grips the broken Horn of Gondor. Boromir rode out to save them, to get them the only thing that could save them, and he came back dead on the river. The Horn was broken. Once, its song would mean help to men of Gondor surrounded by an superior foe, but now it is forever silent. When he heard of the Fellowship setting out from Rivendell, Denethor was overtaken by such total peace, he closed his eyes to the hopeless fighting and knew that rescue would come soon. Because Gandalf rode with his son, and together, nothing could withstand them. Gandalf would not let anything happen to Boromir. Together, they would take the Ring to Gondor, and with the power of the One Gandalf would banish the threat and the shadow pressing through his borders, forever. Life would be light again, one long breath of relief. And in return of that trust, this is what he got. Boromir is dead, the Ring is nowhere to be found, and Gandalf has ignored him for far too long. Denethor clutches their broken hope harder in his hand, waiting, wanting to grieve for Boromir but he cannot allow himself that, cannot let it get to him now-- And then - Gandalf bursts in the door, and for a moment, Denethor is stunned - where is the grey, where are the lines in his Master's face? Whence all the light, the whiteness, the glow that seems to blind Denethor's sight as he tries to look straight at him? It is as if layers and layers of what used to be Gandalf's appearance have been flayed away, baring the true essence of his Master's soul - and for a moment Denethor wants nothing but to get to his knees and beg his Master for forgiveness-- But the Horn is cold in his hand, and when that short moment has passed and been banished by a blink of an eye, it seems to Denethor as if he is looking at a stranger. He looks down, closes his eyes for this stranger's light, and is distantly aware that he is being greeted. "I come with tidings in this dark hour", a voice says, vaguely familiar, vaguely powerful "And with counsel." *Tidings.* The word is a dark wave against a distant shore, and Denethor has seen all he needs to see. What Gandalf says matters not. "Perhaps you come to explain *this*", he spits out. "Perhaps you come to tell me why my son is dead." *You were supposed to take care of him. I *trusted* you, Gandalf.* He looks up, meets the eyes of the man he used to worship. There is a sudden uncertainty in them, a slight hint of surprise that glitters on the surface before sinking in, hiding. At it hits Denethor that Gandalf did not know that he knew. He stares at the wizard, because there was apparently a time when Gandalf would know everything and always be right - or was that just Denethor being mistaken? Maybe Gandalf never truly was those things the Steward always thought he was. Only, he must have been. Denethor remembers, with sudden conviction, a hand on his body as he was tearing at the chains that held his hands above his head, a hand over his beating heart, touching him and touching until it hurt deep inside of him and all around him and the air itself seemed to be alive with waves of pain and that other thing, the one that wasn't pain but just as beautiful and good-- *He hurt you. That can hardly be good, can it?* He shakes it off, presses it away; it is the Eye talking, and this, at least, Denethor knows. It *was* good. It was the best thing in his life. But why this, then? When did Gandalf stop taking care of him the way he promised he would? When did Gandalf become so cold, so distant, when he would once be so close and look into Denethor's heart? And why? Is this perhaps Denethor's own fault, his own doing? Was there anything he could have done to prevent it, if he had served his Master better, listened more closely, sought to do his bidding--? They look each other is the eye, now, and in a short heart beat of gratitude, Denethor *thinks* that the look in Gandalf's eyes softens, that he is going to speak, to explain, tell Denethor what he did wrong and give him a chance to redeem himself-- But then the hobbit detaches itself from the wizard's shadow, springs forward, and Denethor stares at it, because he wasn't even aware of its presence-- "Boromir died to save us, my kinsman and me", he explains hastily, and meets Denethor's eye for brief moment. *A hobbit*, yes, but Denethor doesn't know where the word comes from because he has never seen it's like, never heard of it, and he doesn't know why there is an other image - a black mountain looming high against the sky, two hobbits with torn clothes making their way over black, shattered stone-- There is a wave of confusion, too, it doesn't work, and there is his son, the dead one, Faramir, turning his head and looking at something with slightly parted lips-- No, Denethor understands less and less these days, but the creature next to his Master is called a hobbit, that he is certain of. "He fell defending us from many foes", the hobbit continues, and realisation comes, at once both calming and upsetting, that he must be lying. Boromir would never give his life to defend the hobbits, Boromir is a good son, faithful, Boromir would bring them to Minas Tirith, to his father; the hobbits, the Ring, it is all blending together in his mind's eye... It sounds like the kind of unsuspecting treason Faramir would have committed, though - Faramir, not Boromir, Faramir never understood about priorities... Denethor blinks as the hobbit takes a few steps towards him, falls to his knees and offers the Steward his service - "Such as it is. In payment of this debt." Denethor stares at it like hypnotized. He has no idea about why the hobbit would do something like that, why he would be stupid enough to put his life in Denethor's hands like that, give Denethor that kind of power over him-- Gandalf's staff knocks the hobbit, breaks the spell. "Get up", the wizard growls, before turning his attention back to Denethor. Denethor closes his eyes, looks down, hobbit forgotten. "My lord", Gandalf begins, hastily, and Denethor can sense the empty formality of the title, because to Gandalf the Grey he never was a lord expect in this hall, in front of a hundred eyes. "My lord, there will be a time to grieve for Boromir, but it is not now. War is coming." *War is coming.* Denethor snorts silently. War has been upon them for a lifetime, and it has been lost nearly as long. There are sounds of war all around him, the sound of weapons being forged at burning smithies. *King*, it echoes as the hammer hits the steel, king, king-- "The enemy is at your doorstep!". Gandalf continues, keeps telling Denethor things he knows perfectly well, and Denethor grieves that Gandalf finds him so stupid, that he thinks that Denethor doesn't know all this, that it somehow has passed him by completely what is happening in his country-- Denethor knows what is happening better than Gandalf, apparently, does, and it is awkward, wrong, because Gandalf was always the one who knew what to do, even if it was just *keep fighting*, the one who would give him hope. Hope was vain and stupid and to no prevail, but Denethor suddenly remembers how sweet it tasted, craves to taste it again, craves to give in to his Master's power once more, to surrender to his arms and let him trace pain all over Denethor's body and make him forget-- "--you are charged with the defence of the city! Where are Gondor's armies?" --but his Master won't let him; Denethor can sense the displeasure in his Master's voice, he is demanding something that Denethor cannot give him- - And why defences? He doesn't understand although he is doing all he can to understand - why is his Master talking about *defences?* The war is fought and lost a long time ago, Gandalf must know that, because Gandalf knows, it is in his nature to know everything, and thus, it must be something else and Denethor has to hear behind the words... What use is there in defences now, when their time was over long ago? Why does Gandalf want defences? He himself has no defences, hasn't had in years, not since Gandalf touched him for the first time-- Is that the way of it now, he suddenly wonders, the rage of jealousy overflowing him, is *that* what Gandalf wants now? Someone new, someone who isn't *broken in* yet? Has his Master grown tired of him, is that it? Is that why he never returned? Denethor stares at Gandalf, because that is it, isn't it, it has to be-- "You still have friends", Gandalf says, has apparently not noticed a thing, "you are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons--" And suddenly, just like that, Denethor understands. *King* is the sound of a broken blade being forged back together, and they all know what *that* means. "You think you are wise, *Mithrandir*", Denethor snarls, "yet for all your subtleties, you have no wisdom." *You thought that I wouldn't notice, didn't you? Do you really think so little of me?* It hurts, because this proves that Gandalf does, and Denethor has been better than that, deserves better from his Master... "Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know", he spits. "I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan." It falls between them, this last statement, and Gandalf looks taken a back, just a little, just for a moment, and that is all confirmation Denethor needs. *I know who rode with *you*, Gandalf.* Oh yes, Denethor knows that Aragorn son of Arathorn was also a part of that Fellowship. *I know who you left me for, when you couldn't get away from me fast enough when you left last time, when you barely had time to touch me before you ran off to the library, to those dusty, useless old books... What could they give that I cannot? What can *he*?* "Oh yes", Denethor says, slowly, "word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn..." *I would have told you how, even though I know that you little like it, the use of palantírs... I would have told you and poured my heart out for you, about everything, and awaited your verdict, I would have opened myself completely and sat there with beating heart and waited... And you betray me like this.* "I tell you now, I will *not* bow to this ranger from the North!" he spits. *I bowed for you, Gandalf. I did everything for you. I gave you everything*, he sobs, deep inside, *you were my everything, I would have given you my life if you had asked for it, how can you abandon me like this?* *What did I do wrong?* Gondor is *his* responsibility, *he* is the one entrusted to protect it, and it is a place of high honour. Servitude is honour, he has taken pride in it, he has bled and seen his people bleed, he has fought off orches and taken grievous wounds, he would have given his life if it would have saved them. But he didn't, he stayed alive when he wanted to die because he *knows* that a life of servitude is far more honourable than a glorious death, living is hard but dying is easy, and he *never* took the easy way out because he was too proud of his position, and he has *never*, under his long rule, done anything to be ashamed of-- "Last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship...", he snorts. It is all about serving, lordship, does Aragorn son of Arathorn understand that? Does he know what it takes? Denethor protected Gondor with his life, he saw his son die for it, and now he is being replaced for losing a war he never could win! *Replaced*, replaced in his Master's eyes, replaced on the throne, and it is all the same, he is being thrown aside-- Denethor *did the best he could*, can his Master not see that? Why does Gandalf do this to him? "Rule of Gondor is mine and none other's!" he snarls again at Gandalf, because Gandalf is just watching him, just watching, and at that, there is something in his Master's eyes that is almost disappointment, almost contempt, and that hurts - because a good servant would never hint of desire for power, and Denethor has never wanted it - or would, if Denethor would allow it to hurt. But then Gandalf swirls around and out, and the hobbit follows him, leaving Denethor alone. * He cannot sleep that night, but on the other hand, he has not been able to sleep for long, he thinks when breathing is painful and hard and the darkness holds its own rhythm all around him, alive. Denethor feels sick and alarmingly detached when he floats though the darkness, dimly aware of the fact that his bed is under him but still there is nothing, nothing that holds him. Where are his chains? He wants his chains, he needs them. He needs to feel them cut into his flesh as he struggles to escape the pain, strong and unyielding and comforting and telling him that he cannot escape, that they will not let him, that they will *force* him to feel it, all of it, the pain... He needs it so badly, and where is his Master, why can his Master not hear him, why doesn't he come--? There is one way to find out, of course, an easy way; the eye in the corner of his sight knows this and Denethor knows this; he needs only to get up, walk to the room and draw aside the fabric that covers the seeing stone-- *Have a look...*, it says, and makes it sound so easy, *there is truth here, truth to be beheld... You were never one to shy away from hard truths, were you...?* No, he was not, but Denethor does not get up. He clutches the blanket hard in his fists, he throws himself over to the other side of the bed, he bites at his wrist and feels nothing. There is stone and rock, the mountains are looming all around him and in him, hard and sharp and splinting his heart apart, and there are weapon's in his room, sharp edges, he could-- but he won't, because Denethor does not hurt himself because that would be missing the point entirely, he *won't*, and he damns his pride because even after all this time Gandalf the Grey is the only one he would allow to hurt him-- *He betrayed you.* *Yes, he did.* Gandalf the Grey has become Gandalf the White, he is great and shining and false... *Denethor... What has happened to you?* The voice is familiar, it would wrap him in and create that illusion of safety if he let it, but he won't, because Denethor does not need illusions of neither safety nor hope. He doesn't answer, just waits for the voice to caress him again, tense. *What have they done to you?* *You would take care of me. You were supposed to protect me.* Denethor is aware of a presence in his room, by his side, but he doesn't dare to open his eyes, or perhaps they already are open and he still can't see a thing. He lies very still, heart beating. *Denethor, I-- Remember.* He doesn't answer. He breathes instead, swirling darkness, and closes his eyes harder, and holds his blanket. An eternity passes. And after a while it comes, breaking free from somewhere deep inside of him, deep and shuddering. *Please.* There is a hand on his arm, he can see it, glowing in the dark even though he still hasn't opened his eyes, but he doesn't feel it. *You are a ghost.* *I cannot reach you.* The hand flows over his skin, no presence behind it, no pressure, no pain, nothing whatsoever. Denethor watches it, doesn't move, as it sweeps over and through his body, doesn't feel anything. When he opens his eyes the room is empty, and to his dying day, Denethor will never be able to tell whether Gandalf was there or not. *He betrayed you.* *Yes.* *But what do you care?* And that is true, he cares nothing for his Master's betrayal. He won't let it touch him. He does not need Gandalf the Grey. He needs no one. And that feels good. When morning comes, Denethor still hasn't slept and lies atop of his bed, exhausted. His eyes are open but the tears have dried on his cheeks. * It is the day when the hobbit swears him fealty. Somehow the familiarity of the process comforts him, the words, "Here do I swear fealty... peace or war... living or dying... from this hour henceforth..." Through them, he hears the memory of a thousand other men giving him that oath, and he suddenly feels strangely fond of the hobbit. But that is not good, is it? What has the hobbit done to deserve Denethor's love? He came with Gandalf, did he not, and who knows why the wizard brought him to Minas Tirith? Who knows what the two of them do in the dark? Who knows what the hobbit has taken that does not belong to him? The hobbit's life lies in Denethor's hands now, and he could do anything with it, anything... Denethor thinks of blood and eyes wide open in fear, he thinks of chains and knifes and revenge-- And banishes the thought, disgusted. That was never him, that was never in him. For a moment, he hates himself for even thinking it. He could never muster that kind of hatred, anyway, not now. And he forgets, as other things catches his attention. Food, for example, the waiting table. A young man is standing in the room with them. He has golden hair falling down below his shoulders and seems to have hurt himself in some battle or the other. He holds an helmet in his hand. It is his son, it suddenly occurs to him. Faramir. Faramir hasn't died yet. And that is-- Dread washes over Denethor as he recognizes his son and realises that some sort of a mistake must have happened. Faramir should be the dead one, he was always supposed to be - Boromir's pale face and unseeing eyes flashes before him, death come down the river, and it is wrong wrong wrong, shouldn't have been that way - Boromir is always the six year old boy, turning around and smiling at his father in the courtyard a summer day long ago, holding his first play sword in his hand, Denethor's pride, his joy, his firstborn - a small, fragile being that they placed in his arms, his son, a wonder, a miracle. Boromir was the one who was supposed to live, Faramir was the one he always knew would die, the one he, Denethor, would have to send to his death one day-- He thought that he had already, but-- Osgiliath is a wind blowing through deserted ruins, populated by creatures of the night and human bones. Denethor blinks. Osgiliath. Faramir did not hold Osgiliath. Of course not. "Valour with honour", Denethor says to himself, "disloyalty with vengeance." Those are the words. That is the agreement they make. It is nothing if not fair. He sits down by the table, starts filling his plate. Boromir, yes, Boromir is dead, he remembers that perfectly well now, he remembers the boat and the shouting and his son's body. It annoys him that he forgot, because now it seems to him like he never has forgotten. The pain is not fresh anymore; he can approach it, the memories, without them sending out those sharp cuts of warning. Something inside of him relaxes, opens. Yes, he can see it all now, clearly, he can revisit the memory and look into his son's unseeing eyes, it doesn't hurt. Denethor is relieved. Boromir is dead, yes, but it is merely a fact. And here is Faramir, alive when his brother is dead. And that, too, is just another fact, so is what he has to do to set it right. "I do not think that we so lightly should abandon the outer defences", Denethor says. "Defences that your brother long held intact." He tastes his food, it tastes nothing. "What would you have me do?", Faramir asks, just as Denethor knew he would. Dutiful son. Or likes to pretend he is, at the least. "I will not yield the river Pelennor unfought", Denethor says. "Osgiliath must be retaken." "My lord", Faramir protests, "Osgiliath is over-run!" There is clear fear in his voice, and Denethor snorts silently. *Dying is easy. Living is hard. Do not think that this does not pain me, as well. I am sending you out to die, Faramir, and whatever else you may be, you are my son.* "Much must be risked in war", he says, and when Faramir doesn't answer - "Is there a captain here that still has the courage to do his lord's will?" Oh, that got to him, Denethor can see that, the way his body jolts ever so slightly. No one is more sensitive to having his courage questioned than the coward, this Denethor has learned well. There is triumph, when Denethor realises that this is working, but it is not his. Faramir remains silent, then speaks, voice only almost cracking. "You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir lived." Denethor is slightly surprised over Faramir's insight in the matter - he had never thought his younger son capable of such. For a moment, he contemplates denying it, because that would be kinder after all, a small mercy, easy to grant... But why would he do Faramir such a kindness? Silence speaks louder than words sometimes, after all, and Denethor will not lie. "Yes", he says, "that I wish." The words come surprisingly easy, and it occurs to him that they should be harder to say, when he casts a look at Faramir and see the tears in his son's eyes. Denethor is starting to get fascinated with the emptiness inside of him. *This is my son*, he thinks. *They put him in my arms when he was newly born. I watched him play in the corner of the Great Hall when I was in a meeting with my captains. I put him in the saddle of his first horse. I watched him laugh. Now I am sending him to die.* Nothing. Faramir bows, turns around, leaves to face his death. Denethor watches the wine goblet in his hands. It is good wine, old. His son's voice cracks for real, this time, when he hesitates, and turns around. "If I should return", he says, "think better of me, father." Denethor can hear the prayer in his son's voice, but he knows that the young captain will not return. Faramir will die the way Denethor always knew he would, because he was the one who should have died all along, and perhaps by doing that, by fulfilling his part, he can set it right again... "That will depend on the manner of your return", Denethor says. * Later, when Faramir had ridden off and the hall echoes empty around him, Denethor chews on a mouthful of food and can not feel its taste. The hobbit is with him, dressed in a guardsman's uniform, but apart from this, the hall is empty. *Faramir is riding out to die*, he thinks, for he has heard the sounds from the street. *He may not even return. The orcs may put his head on a pole and ravage his body. Even if we could go back to Osgiliath we may not find him, the body would be twisted beyond recognition... The orcs may torture him first, if they can get him alive, they may take him with them, he may stay alive for days and weeks in some orc-lair deep under the mountains...* And all this will be Denethor's own doing. This should hurt, Denethor is vaguely aware of that, but it doesn't. There is something deep inside of him that is starting to get alarmed at this lack of hurt. "Come, sing me a song", Denethor tells the hobbit. The hobbit sings, some obscure sad song, and Denethor looks through the plate in front of him, and the words pass him by. *Boromir is dead*, he continues in his head, *my son, my firstborn...* He remembers Boromir the child, by the table beside a hundred grown men and soldiers, eating his dinner and listening, he remembers Boromir the warrior, who retook Osgiliath and had everybody cheering for him. *With the both of them dead it is over, my line has ended, it is over, I have failed. I betrayed my Master*, he thinks. *I could have done better, I could have served better, and then he wouldn't have left me, it is all my fault. I cannot blame anyone else. It is my doing, all of it. Now everything is over, the darkness is spreading from Mordor, all the free lands will fall into Sauron's hands. There was nothing I could do - no, there must have been. Something. The world is ending and it is my fault. Why doesn't this hurt?* And even when Denethor breaks down and cries for his son, even when he lashes out his grief for everyone to see, even when he builds a funeral pyre in rising panic and desperation, he knows that what he feels is not real, that it is just surface, illusion, lie, that it doesn't cut to his depths and that he is doing this only to hide the emptiness, the lack of true grief, and that no matter now much he tries to deny it, no matter how much he tries to force it to hurt, he will never again feel a single thing.