1. Faramir Denethorion?
Denethor paced outside his wife's room in a fury. Not for him, oh, not for him would she conceive, but for a wandering captain, oh! He cursed himself. For two years now he had not bedded her or even slept in the same chamber. Yes, he had kept his pretence, of loving her above all else. And he had loved her. But she was faithless. Longing always for the sea, she neglected her own son to pine for her home. And Boromir, young and foolish though he was, was Denethor's only companion now. Finduilas was ever longing for better things. Well, she had them now. She had money, jewels, fine clothes, and then another man. What more would she need? He had forbidden Thorongil, on the pain of death, from ever coming into the city again. He could not kill the child. He would not, for he would be found out. He would not be able to put on the pretense of greiving. No, his vengeance would take another route entirely.
He lay down on his pyre, the usurper's son dying of a fever. As the gentle flames enveloped him, washing away the memory of that fateful day, he looked into the palantir. But there he found no comfort.
The door bursting open. She lay there. With him. He slept yet, but he could still see who he was, beside her. She rose to dress, while he watched. Giving him a smug look, as she always did. She was ever brazen, ever too bold for her own good.
He cried out, tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't.
Pouring wine for his wife with his back turned. They were having dinner tonight, he told her, so they could talk. He wanted to forgive her, he explained. He cast a fond smile back over his shoulder at her as he poured the slow acting poison into her wine. He could grieve for her, he knew.
He tried to turn his head, to look away, to die, but the palantir gripped him fully now, so that he could not even blink. Or perhaps it was the fire, burning his eyelids back. He never knew.
Faramir simply thought that his father hated him. He simply thought that he wasn't good enough. He did not realize that Mithrandir spoke with his true father. He did not realize that Denethor wanted to see his faithless wife's son dead. Not until the Osgiliath raid.
At last, he started to feel death's slow embrace coming, so that the palantir was blurred. No voices would come now. None could reach him any longer, as he slipped away.
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.
