Minas Tirith, 15 March 3019 T.A. 

The Grey Fool asked him to prepare a sortie, Denethor laughed bitterly to himself.  The sortie had been ready for many years.  For he had not let his lady’s foresight go unheeded. 

The vision she had described seemed like a retreat from the outposts to the City.  In such a situation, a sortie (preferably with mounted soldiers) would be needed to give the retreating force a chance of survival.  And their son would be in that perilous retreat, she had said. 

Thus he had striven to strengthen Gondor’s cavalry.  He bought more horses from Rohan and trained more soldiers to fight on horseback.  Their number was still too few for a proper attack, but at least he would have a sortie ready when it was needed.  No son of his should be slain so close to the City, not while Gondor still had men left to succour him. 

That evening, as the Siege of Gondor began, fear and despair hung heavily in the air.  Denethor stood on the battlement of the White Tower, straining his eyes and mind to pierce the shadow and discern what was happening below at the Pelennor.  Next to him a trumpeter was ready to give the signal.   

Below them, by the Great Gate, the sortie waited for the signal. Imrahil must be at the forefront, his two sons not far behind, Denethor thought, all three waiting impatiently for the signal and swearing at him.   

He recalled the look of disbelief and disdain that Finduilas’ brother had shot him after the last council was dismissed, as Faramir strode off to prepare his men to go to Osgiliath.  To go for the terrible task of defending the outposts, as Denethor had commanded. 

He strained his eyes to see as far as he could.  All was dark, veiled in the shadow of the Enemy.  The sound of hoof beats reached his ears.  Is Faramir come?  He also heard flapping wings in the air, which chilled his heart.   

At last an ordered mass of men came into view, less than a mile from the Great Gate.  Faramir must be there, who else could keep the retreating men in such order?  Regardless of his stubbornness and his dubious loyalty, his second son had proven an able Captain. 

He saw the winged shadows on the sky, the Enemy’s horsemen and numerous Orcs.  Finduilas had seen rightly, then.  Foul black creatures stooping to kill their son; swarming Orcs pursuing him.  If this was what she had seen that day many years ago, no wonder her joy had faded afterwards. 

He commanded the trumpeter to give the signal.  The trumpet rang, and out rode the knights of Gondor with a great shout.  He could see Imrahil’s blue banner.  The Prince of Dol Amroth outpaced the rest; riding like one chased by a herd of wild beasts.  Yet Denethor wished Imrahil could have ridden even faster. 

He could not see Faramir.  Was his son alive?  Did an arrow pierced him, as Finduilas had seen?  Would Imrahil reach him in time? 

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.  What right did he have to worry for Faramir?  He, who had cast Faramir in this desperate situation. 

He shook his head.  It would not do to get distracted now.  He directed his mind to the battle below.  As he saw the sortie about to go too far, pursuing the enemy, he nodded to the trumpeter.  The trumpet rang again, the knights of Gondor halted and retreated, as the Lord of Gondor had called them back. 

As he waited in the Tower for his son, or at least news of him, his mind wandered to years past, when things had not been so dark.   

When Faramir was about twelve, there were nights when he struggled to find sleep.  On those nights, he would either go to Boromir’s chamber or come to Denethor’s study, where he would sit quietly until he finally fell asleep. 

There was one night, when alone in his study, Denethor glanced at the chair where Finduilas used to sit.  He was suddenly overwhelmed by grief and he wept.  When his emotions subsided and he regained his composure, he was startled to see Faramir standing near the door.  How long his son had been standing there silently, Denethor did not know.   

Then Faramir, that twelve-year-old child, came to him, hugged him tightly, apologized for having disturbed him many times, wished him good night, and left.  Thenceforward, Faramir never again complained to Denethor about his dreams (or anything else, for that matter) or cried over missing Finduilas in his presence. 

Some thought Faramir acted this way out of fear of his stern father, but Denethor knew the real reason.  That young motherless child—was Faramir not more pitiful than him?—loved and pitied him and stubbornly refused to add to his burdens. 

Was there ever a father who received as much pity from his son?  And what had he given in return?  

“That depends on the manner of your return,” he had said to Faramir in their last parting.   

Whatever had possessed him to say that?  Even the Doom of Mandos had not sounded so cruel. 

Then again, what had come over the two of them in the last three days?   

They had grieved together over Boromir’s death—mostly in silence, admittedly—yet they had stood side-by-side and found solace in each other’s presence.  They had parted amicably (though not warmly) fifteen days prior, when Faramir departed for the errand in Ithilien.  Faramir left after giving him a heartfelt salute. 

Where had things gone wrong? 

Then, eleven days after he left for Ithilien, Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith, pursued by the accursed winged shadows.  When Denethor heard of that, he froze, gripped by the memory of Finduilas’ foresight.  He quickly ordered the Citadel guards to succour Faramir, but Mithrandir and his shining white horse had reached the Gate first.   

Words could not describe his relief and pride when Faramir entered the Steward’s residence—alive and standing firm, though pale.  So great had been his relief that Denethor had remained silent even when Faramir openly reported to Mithrandir about Isildur’s Bane, as if Denethor had not been present. 

It had not surprised Denethor that Faramir had let the Halflings and Isildur’s Bane go, that he wholeheartedly supported Mithrandir’s foolish plan concerning such a powerful weapon.  His second son was one to think that way.  Why, then, had Faramir bothered to seek Denethor’s approval?   

“I hope I have not done ill?” Faramir had asked, having fixed his eyes on Mithrandir throughout the discourse.  What could he have expected Denethor to respond? 

Yet his ire over Isildur’s Bane, over Faramir’s faith in Mithrandir, could not justify what had happened in the Council chamber.   

Why had he rebuked Faramir with the mention of courage?  Faramir would have gone willingly, had he asked him.  Then he would not have had to command him to go, and could have sent him with his blessing.  

“If I should return,” Faramir had said. 

If he should return?  Surely he would return—would Denethor have commanded him to go, had he not been sure of that?   Surely he would return—he could govern men and beasts, his life was charmed, Finduilas had foreseen his return to the Pelennor! 

But then again, was he truly sure of that?  They had known that the host of Mordor was coming in a great force, that Gondor’s force would be outnumbered, that the retreat would be perilous.   

Was Denethor even thinking about retreat?  Had he not thought, in a flash of desperation, that Osgiliath shall not fall, no matter the cost?  Had he not imagined, in a fit of anger, that Faramir would rue letting the powerful Ring go, when pressed by the Enemy's forces in Osgiliath, and thus learn an important lesson?   

Aye, aye, he screamed inwardly, I was guilty of all that!   

Yet he could say one thing in good conscience—he could swear this by Finduilas’ memory—that he had never thought, not even for a moment, that Faramir deserved to die and therefore had commanded him to die in Osgiliath. 

Again, a bitter laugh escaped him.  What was he doing?  Was he trying to defend himself? 

“Think better of me,” Faramir had said.  How could he think better of him?  If only Faramir knew what he thought of him!  But how could Faramir know, since he had never told him? 

The sound of heavy footsteps behind him pulled Denethor back to the present. 

He turned, and there he was—his son, whom he had sent unthanked and unblessed to peril, in Imrahil’s arms. 

After Finduilas died, Denethor had thought he knew grief.  After Boromir’s death, Denethor believed he understood despair.  But that night, as he viewed his son’s motionless body, Denethor realized he had not known grief or despair until that very moment.   

This was his second son—the less favoured one, a voice whispered in his mind—who preferred the wizard’s counsel to his own, who rambled loftily of hope when there was none, who spoke nonchalantly of the return of the king, who foolishly discarded the One Ring, the son whom Denethor had said should have died in that foolish errand instead of his beloved Boromir. 

So why did he feel that nothing mattered anymore? 

“Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds,” Imrahil said.  The disdain in the prince’s eyes had turned into a cold fury tinged with pity.  Denethor would have preferred the disdain, but as he looked at Faramir’s face, he no longer cared about Imrahil or anyone else. 

His son’s face was calm, as one who knew he had fulfilled his duty and had now gone to his deserved rest.  He looked so fair and noble that he would not seem out of place among the silent statues of the kings in the Tower Hall below.  Handsome, tall and noble, Finduilas had said; how right she had been!   

And there was no disdain or hatred marring that face.  At their last parting, Faramir had let his hurt, sadness and anger show—and as ever, pity—but not the deserved disdain or hatred. 

This son, too, had loved him greatly, Denethor thought, and he felt the invisible knife that had stabbed his heart at Finduilas’ death plunge deeper into his being. 

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