| Denethor Speaks his Mind |
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| It was with
mixed feelings that
Boromir led his two
companions to his
father’s sick room. For
the most part, he felt
overjoyed and relieved
that his father had - as
had been long expected -
regained his clear mind.
But there was a smaller
part of Boromir that
worried whether his
father would forgive him
for his actions. Boromir
did not worry he would
be condemned for
knocking the Steward of
Gondor unconscious -
Denethor would
understand that it had
been necessary - but for
his participation in the
events of the days
following. Somehow, Boromir thought, he ought to have found a way to prevent them from happening, or, at least, delay them until Denethor had regained his health and taken up his office again. But he had not. Aragorn had claimed and taken the Crown of Gondor, and Faramir, acting as Steward in his father’s place, had handed over the realm to the new King. Boromir scowled at the paved floor as he climbed the steps leading to the best chamber in the Houses of Healing. He had not had the stomach to perform this act. He had barely managed to witness it. Now, however, he felt that he had behaved as a coward, forcing on his younger brother a duty he himself had not had the strength to fulfil. If his father condemned him for this, he could not but agree. Faramir, of course, had not felt burdened by taking over the role as Steward on this occasion. Quite the contrary. And that was another cause for Boromir to worry. If their father found out, what might he do? A servant hastened past them in the opposite direction, barely avoiding being trampled by Boromir. He really ought to be more careful, Boromir thought, the healers had enough to do without being knocked over by the Lord Steward’s heir, who was too deep in thought to notice them. Though, Boromir reminded himself, he was the Steward’s heir no longer. Nor was his father Steward. First circumstance had made it necessary to find a new keeper of the realm, now by his own word, the Steward had resigned his office. Since his eldest son and heir refused outright to act as servant to another man, even a man as noble as Aragorn, the office had passed to Denethor’s younger son as Denethor must have heard by now. Boromir wished he knew how his father had taken the news. He did know that Faramir and their father had already spoken. As Boromir had hastened to his own visit, he had exchanged but a few words with his brother. “I still live and that is more than I expected,” had been Faramir’s remark before he hurried on. Sometimes Boromir had no difficulty understanding his father’s irritation with his younger son. Nearing the open door to his father’s room, Boromir took care to wipe the frown from his face. If he did not want to displease his father further, he better showed not up with a face like a storm cloud. On entering the chamber and setting eyes on his father, Boromir’s concern changed abruptly to having to stop himself from grinning like a lunatic for the sheer joy of seeing his father sane again. Denethor, former Steward of Gondor, sat on his bed, propped up by cushions. He was thinner and paler than Boromir had ever seen him, but it must be clear to all that his mind was whole again. He met Boromir’s gaze with clear dark eyes, though did not make a move to acknowledge his son’s presence. Denethor wore a fine, dark gown and sat atop the covers of the bed, he was neatly groomed and no hair out of place. Belatedly, Boromir remembered the servant brushing past him, his father’s personal esquire, who had no doubt attended on his master just now. Never would Denethor receive any callers - leave alone those following Boromir - dressed in less than his best. Still, seeing his father in bed during daytime and with no shoes on, was for Boromir a sight strange to behold. “My Lord,” Boromir said with a short bow. Denethor still sat as if made of stone, just a brief flicker of his eyes to the right side of his bed told Boromir that this was where he was to stand. Not much of a welcome, but enough for Boromir. He could read his father fairly well, if his father wanted to be read, to know that he still enjoyed his father’s favour. Boromir wished fervently that he were alone with his father, even though he knew from long experience that he would not find the right words to say even then. Facing his father’s stern countenance Boromir never managed to express what he was feeling. Even if they were alone now, he’d not be able to tell his father how happy he was about his recovery. They were a family who found it easier to find words to express their differences than their affection. They also were a family not given much to the showing of their feelings, Boromir thought as he took up his assigned position. No embraces would be exchanged even had he been the only one summoned by his father. That, he reflected wryly, was reserved for the return of sons thought dead. Turning to face the door, Boromir wished more than anything that his father had spared himself the strain of this particular conference. Or at least postponed it until he had fully regained his strength. But it had been Denethor’s wish, and Steward or no Steward, for his eldest son, his wish still was and would always be command. Aragorn, newly made King of Gondor, strode in, with confidence and a generous bow to the Man he visited. “Lord Denethor,” he said calmly. At least, Boromir thought, overcome by a feeling of resentment against the Man, Aragorn showed restraint enough not to flaunt his new-gained crown. He wore the famous sword, but who could ask any Man to leave his weapons outside. Behind Aragorn, Gandalf-Mithrandir the wizard followed. He, too, was wearing a sword and his white wizard’s staff. Like Aragorn, Gandalf bowed and said, “Lord Denethor.” Denethor acknowledged the greeting with the briefest of nods, then dropped his eyes to the foot of his bed, or perhaps to his own bestockinged feet. Looking at his father’s bowed head, Boromir felt an overpowering urge to protect him from any harm or insult, or even condescension. He knew that his father was not as frail as he looked right now, still if either of the two who had followed Boromir so much as sneered at his father, that person would find himself in trouble. It was hard to believe that the Man now sitting almost meekly here was the same who had in an attack of madness and despair tried to burn himself and his younger son to save them both from a fate he feared was far worse than death. Mithrandir’s presence must be a pain to his father, more so than ever before as the wizard had been witness to his madness. It must be galling for Denethor to know that his darkest hour had been played out in his old opponent’s presence. As to what he thought of Aragorn, he had made that amply clear before and during the apocalyptic events in the House of the Dead. In saner mind, he might not have used words as harsh as he had but thought the same. No, Boromir realised, Denethor would have said just what he did even in his sanest hour. “I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.” So why bow now, Boromir wondered, and suddenly a spark of fierce pride rose, like a glowing fire in his stomach. The others might think that Denethor was tired, still bowed down by sickness or worry. Perhaps they thought he was thus showing his shame about his actions. Or they might even come to the conclusion that Denethor had not yet regained his wits completely, had called them here but could now not remember why. Boromir pressed his lips together to hide a smile. If they thought so, little did they know of Denethor, master of aggravating silences. And since Denethor was not silent to aggravate his son, Boromir - perhaps for the first time in his life - enjoyed the ongoing stillness. It was Mithrandir who finally broke the silence. “You wished to speak with us, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor,” he asked quietly. Very slowly, Denethor raised his eyes and looked at the wizard for a long time. “I am no longer the Steward of Gondor, and well you know it, Mithrandir,” he answered finally, in a voice so calm it sent shivers down Boromir’s spine. “I am no longer fit to bear this honourable title.” Boromir suppressed the urge to protest. He would not contradict his father, not before these two present. It ought to be they who told Denethor that he was still - again - able to hold office. Perhaps, Boromir thought, they too saw the glitter of challenge in his father’s eyes. It was better if the wizard or the Númenorean did not contradict him. Again, the silence dragged on, a silence that seemed to even spread outside, from where no call of bird or voice of Men was heard. “I have been thinking,” Denethor stated at long last, slowly turning his eyes from Mithrandir to Aragorn, “I have had much time to think these past days. I have been thinking about the past, both distant and recent, about the present and the future, about what was, what is and what will be - and also about what might have been.” Aragorn returned Denethor’s gaze calmly. Boromir thought, if Aragorn wanted to prove himself King in front of the former Steward, he had better manage to bear Denethor’s scrutiny without flinching. “I am grateful to you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, for your efforts to strike back the forces of darkness attacking Gondor,” Denethor stated, “as I wish to thank you for saving the life of my son Faramir.” Denethor paused, and while Aragorn bowed slightly as if to acknowledge the praise, Boromir felt his previous reading of his father to be correct. Unlike Aragorn he knew that Denethor’s words were only the introduction to a dressing-down the would-be-king was not to forget easily. “Your coming has been timely help to this beleaguered city,” Denethor continued, “and you brought the forces when they were most sorely needed.” Mithrandir’s face was clouding over. He, after all, had had dealings with Denethor before and knew him at least a little. “It may be said to be the sacred duty of a king to do whatever lies in his power to defend his realm and its citizens,” Denethor went on, and now there was an edge in his voice. “A king has to fight to his death in his country’s defence, he has to spend every ounce of his energy to save his people, bend every thought on the welfare of the land. It may be said, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, that you did no more than your duty. It does honour you that you have fulfilled your duty, now.” Denethor made a brief pause, then asked, “The question that I would dearly like the answer to, is why did you not do so forty years ago?” A startled intake of breath from Mithrandir sounded loud in the silence that followed this question. Aragorn looked uncomfortable and was about to reply, when Denethor shook his head, an expression of intense weariness on his face. “It is futile to wish that what has been was different,” Denethor said. “However, being but a Man I cannot help wishing, even though I know the wishing to be futile. As far as my own actions are concerned, I wish I had taken the advice my son gave me more than once.” He turned to Boromir and there was an intensity in his eyes that made Boromir’s face grow hot. “My son, in his younger days, has often asked me why I was content to merely be a Steward, why did I not take the crown of Gondor, a crown unclaimed for centuries. I told him that a Steward is a Steward. I saw no need to be anything else. Even though, unlike my son, I knew that there was one who might want to challenge my rule, I feared not him nor his claim. Little difference it would make to the dignity of my house if the title I bore was that of King or Steward. Now, I wish I had taken the crown and title. Now that I know the Oathbreakers of Dunharrow followed a King. Thirty years ago, our strength to fight was greater than it is today. With the help of the army of the Dead we could have taken the fight into Mordor and all this destruction could have been prevented.” “Even if you had taken the title of King, Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir stated, “the Oathbreakers might not have followed you.” “They followed him,” Denethor snapped, with a dismissive wave at Aragorn, glaring at the wizard, “and his claim is flawed to say the least. Why, O wisest of all wizards, did you not tell me? You did not grow tired of berating us for not doing enough to protect this land, but yet you did not mention that a powerful army was hiding at our very doorstep? When you were urging us to strengthen our fight against the Enemy, did you in turn remind this Ranger that there were matters to attend to more pressing than wandering the northern wastelands or courting Elrond of Rivendell’s daughter?” Denethor turned to Aragorn. “Why, my Lord King,” he asked with venom in his voice, “did you wait until this kingdom was on the verge of destruction before you made your claim?” Aragorn did flinch now, and Boromir thought it was a pretty sight. Lowering his eyes, Aragorn answered, “My Lord Denethor, I understand why you feel I have been tardy. I was not ready to take this burden on me ere now. I did not know whether I was worthy to be king.” “Worthy?” Denethor echoed, sarcasm ringing in the question. “To claim to be not worthy of a duty is just a fancy way of saying you were afraid that you might fail.” “I…,” Aragorn began but Denethor interrupted him, “To know if you are worthy of a noble office there is no other way than to take the title and try to prove your valour. You will discover nothing of your worth by lurking in dark corners looking mysterious.” It seemed to Boromir that his father had put his time to good use and found out as much as possible about the Númenorean’s past. “Do you think,” Denethor went on, “I have not wondered myself whether I was fit at all to be the Steward of Gondor? Do you not think he has questioned if he was adequate to once be Steward?” Denethor waved at Boromir, who allowed himself to smile. He knew his father well enough to see the praise in this. “If I wondered whether I fulfilled my obligations to Gondor and to you, my Lord father, it was because you reminded me of my shortcomings,” he replied. “Yes,” Denethor stated, “but the reminder made you try harder to be found worthy. It did not make you hide among the elves, sing songs and feel the nobler because you were shirking what duties you regarded as yours.” Aragorn looked as if he dearly wished to be elsewhere. Perhaps he even wondered whether he had the strength to endure this dressing-down by the former Steward of Gondor. Perhaps, Boromir thought, he should feel sorry for the Ranger. He did not have the forty years of experience in dealing with Denethor he himself had. “Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir chimed in, “you are being unfair. We did not know that the enemy would attack so soon.” “As I recall,” Boromir stated, “the enemy has been attacking since before any present here were born.” The wizard cast a weary glance at Boromir, then turned back to Denethor. “Even if you or Aragorn had taken the fight into the Enemy’s lands, to Mordor, or even to the very Gates of Barad-dûr, you could not destroy Sauron’s fortress or the Evil One himself. And the Ring would still be in existence and a constant threat to all of Middle Earth.” Denethor’s eyebrows shot up, then an expression of wide-eyed bewilderment appeared on his face as it might that of on a five-year-old child ushered in to the Yule-tide celebrations. On his gaunt features it looked quite disconcerting. “This from the wizard who barely a few weeks ago scolded me as if I were a truant schoolboy for merely holding our own and not taking the fight to the Enemy?” A deadly silence followed. Boromir found it very hard not to grin at the sight of Mithrandir almost literally squirming under Lord Denethor’s gaze. “But the Ring,” Mithrandir said. “Do you not think it was wiser to employ the ghostly army in a confrontation where we had the chance to destroy the One Ring and end the threat of Mordor for ever?” “Ah, yes, the Ring,” Denethor echoed. “How long since you found out where the Ring of Power was hid? Thirteen months? Did you hasten the - what was it you called him? Oh, yes, Ringbearer. Did you hasten the Ringbearer to start his journey at once? You did not. And when he set out, what then? At least, wizard, you had the foresight to arrange for a secondary plan if you failed to meet with the Ringbearer and his companions. Though I would have thought a rider with a fast horse would be preferable to having four halflings and a ranger bumble through the wilderness. An ill number in truth, too small for efficient protection, too large to escape notice.” “We did escape notice,” Aragorn exclaimed, probably against an earlier decision to let the old man ramble on. “From what I have heard there was a skirmish with five Ringwraiths near the watch tower of Amon Sûl. The halfling bearing the Ring almost died, did he not?” Denethor queried. For a moment Boromir was surprised how well-informed his father was. He wondered whether it had been the foul whisperings of the Palantir that had told him what others would prefer to keep hidden, but then he realised that all that was needed was a friendly chat with the younger halflings. Denethor dismissed the subject with a wave, “No matter, the Ringbearer lived, and you reached Rivendell. And then? Mithrandir, then you did know that the enemy was moving, the Ringwraiths were abroad, searching for the Ring. You knew Saruman as well as Sauron were prepared to attack. Still, you wasted two months in Rivendell. A delay that not only meant you lost two months of precious time, but also that you started your onward journey just as winter set in and the pass of Caradhras was closed to you. Was there a deeper reason behind it or did it take the elven smiths as long as that to reforge the sword that was broken?” “My Lord father,” Boromir said when neither Aragorn nor Gandalf made an immediate reply, “had I known how long they wished to tarry with Elrond of Rivendell, I would have returned at once to Minas Tirith and told them to go stuff themselves.” “Language, Boromir,” Denethor said sternly, but there was an amused glitter in his eyes. “Another month cooling your heels in Lórien, I hear,” Denethor went on. “Including the six months’ delay before this Frodo Baggins sat out on his perilous journey, nine months were wasted in a matter that you regarded as one of greatest urgency. I do find myself wondering how long you delay a matter of less importance.” “Lord Denethor,” Aragorn now stated gravely, though there was an edge of anger in his voice as well. “We have done what we thought was best. It is your right to question our decisions, though there is now no way we can undo them. If we had come earlier, would you have denied my claim? If in truth we could have arrived here nine months earlier as you reckon, your son,” he nodded in Boromir’s direction, “would still have been on his way to Rivendell and could not have saved you from your madness.” “Nine months ago,” Denethor replied, “I had not been driven into madness by the report of my heir’s death and news of an unconquerable army gathering in the Enemy’s domain.” Aragorn nodded briefly, then he fixed his eyes on Denethor again. “Still, would you have denied my claim, Lord Denethor, and risked a civil war?” “Do not flatter yourself, boy,” Denethor retorted scathingly. “If you had come nine months ago, there would have been no miraculous delivery of Minas Tirith, nor any miraculous display of healing hands. Your claim would have been turned down, as was the claim of your ancestor Arvedui, and for the same reasons. It would have been turned down by the council, not by me. I ask of you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, did you crave the throne of Gondor so badly as to risk the realm be torn by civil strife? For I have no doubt there always were those who would back your claim.” “The Oathbreakers of Dunharrow accepted Aragorn as the rightful King of Gondor,” Mithrandir explained calmly. “So, Mithrandir, wizard, do you regard the judgment of a host of Oathbreakers, long suffering and eager to end their punishment, as more just than the ruling of the Council of Gondor?” Again, silence settled uncomfortably in the room. Mithrandir apparently trying to find an answer to the question, Aragorn busy controlling his growing anger. “But I am King,” Aragorn stated at last, a little helplessly as Boromir thought. Denethor sighed. “Yes, you are and may your reign be long and prosperous.” For a moment he closed his eyes, looking very tired of a sudden. “You have claimed your birthright and by skill and chance achieved it. But,” Denethor’s eyes snapped open again. He fixed them on the new King like a snake on the rabbit it was about to devour. “Do not forget, King Elessar, by claiming your birthright you deprived me and my heirs of ours. For nigh on a thousand years my kin has ruled Gondor. Mere caretakers we were, but we did take good care of this realm. Though lying on the very border of the great Enemy’s territories, Gondor still stands, while the kingdom of your ancestors fell into decay and vanished many years ago, existing only as a memory of a few scattered tribes in the wilderness. So, forgive me, great King, if I doubt your blood is nobler than mine, or your right to rule more true. Do not expect me or my sons to feel a debt of gratitude to you. Nor presume to demand subservience from my house. Yes, we have lost the rule of this fair kingdom, due to unhappy circumstance and even unhappier decisions, many of them my own. But does one month of madness outweigh ten centuries of steadfast service?” Closing his eyes again, Denethor settled back into the pillows. “Do not answer, King or wizard, for in my heart I know the answer, and so do you, though yours may be a different one. It does not matter anymore, as Aragorn has been made King and I am no longer Steward.” Aragorn and Gandalf stood for a moment, still gazing at the face of Denethor, then they turned to look at each other, and finally to Boromir as if he could advise them what to do. Boromir was torn between an overwhelming anger at the Númenorean whose right to take the Crown had in Boromir’s eyes been thoroughly dismissed by his father, and anxiety for his father’s health. Some part of him could not help but feel satisfied at seeing these two, the scheming wizard and the upstart king, so thoroughly browbeaten. “Leave, I am tired,” Denethor ordered as if he was aware of what was happening even with his eyes closed. “Tomorrow, my sons and I will leave this place and no longer burden you with our presence. Boromir, show them out, then return, we have much to talk about.” Boromir nodded. There was no need for him to show the way, as both Aragorn as well as Gandalf knew their way around the Houses of Healing, but he did as he was asked. Not trusting himself to keep his temper, Boromir pointed to the door, and obediently the wizard and the King filed out of the former Steward’s room. Boromir followed them out and for a few steps they walked in silence along the halls of the Houses of Healing. Aragorn stopped suddenly and turned to face him, a sorrowful expression on his face. “Boromir ...,” he started, and Boromir’s temper snapped. Grabbing Aragorn by the shoulders he pushed him against a wall and hissed - for he did not wish to disturb his father’s rest. “Do not dare to apologize, or I will cut your head off where you stand and will make an end to the house of Isildur once and for all. You should count yourself lucky my father is a man both wise and just.” Aragorn blinked once and shook his head. “I did not intend to apologize. I wondered merely whether your brother, Lord Faramir, is leaving for Osgiliath with you tomorrow as your father said. I hoped he would remain in Minas Tirith as my Steward.” “Oh.” Boromir let go of Aragorn’s shoulders, stepped back. “I suggest you ask Lord Faramir yourself. He is his own Man and needs not me nor our father to tell him what to do.” “I will bear that in mind,” Aragorn stated. “Now I will leave you to attend to your father.” “You are right, Boromir,” Gandalf said now. “It is too late for apologies. But think not that I do not know your father is a great man and has done much for this kingdom. I wish he will recover quickly and will give us his counsel in the years to come. For you, I hope that you will find happiness and fulfilment with your new duties in Osgiliath.” “Thank you,” Boromir replied, taken somewhat aback by the sincerity in the wizard’s voice. “Many happy years to you, too.” “Come,” Gandalf said to Aragorn, and both departed. Boromir remained staring after the departing Man who had usurped his birthright and the wizard who had helped him to it, and marvelled that they were able to be so civil to each other. It was a wonder. He walked back to his father’s chamber shaking his head. “I trust you did not slay the King,” Denethor said without opening his eyes, as his son entered, surprising Boromir once more by guessing exactly what had happened. “No, I haven’t,” Boromir replied. “Though I admit the thought came to my mind.” “As it has come to mine,” Denethor admitted. He opened his eyes and a faint smile appeared on his face that warmed Boromir’s heart. “I do not hope that what I said will alter either of their minds. Too deeply rooted is their belief that theirs the right. Still, it needed be said, if only to remind myself and you. - And Faramir.” “I am glad you did, father,” Boromir said, as was he glad that his father included Faramir, if only as an afterthought. “Now,” Denethor stated and sat up straighter. “It is time to put the past behind and look to the future. It will be interesting to see what happens when you set up your house in Osgiliath and Aragorn his here in Minas Tirith. Time will tell whose will last longer, whose blood is stronger. Ah, Boromir, for the first time in many years, since your mother’s death, I am now able look at what lies ahead without fear. Perhaps, in time, I will find it in my heart to feel a little grateful for the share this upstart King has played in bringing about the Dark Lord’s downfall. And the wily wizard.” Denethor smiled with such true joy that Boromir knew he had never seen his father so unburdened of worries. “Most grateful I have to be to you, my son,” Denethor said. “For having the courage to beat some sense into my befuddled brain and save both me and Faramir.” “I am most grateful I was there to help,” Boromir replied. “I just wish I had been there earlier.” “So do I,” Denethor said. “But let’s not dwell upon the past for now. Tell me about your plans. We are packed already? How many and who is coming with us? Where do you plan to make our home once in Osgiliath?” He waved Boromir closer and, pointing to a chair close-by, said, “Sit, and tell me all.” And with a joyful heart, Boromir did. |
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