Archive of Our Own

Of all the million broken pieces left in her wake, he could not escape even one, no matter how minor.

He now had to go and bid them goodnight.

Which he had done sometimes before, too - but only if he had the time and felt like it. Because she had been there to do it every night.

Now, it became another job.

All the weight he had to carry alone.

Only four years earlier, he had lost his father.

But that - had been expected and the natural course of things. Lord Ecthelion had enjoyed a long life, and a long rule, and his sunset had clearly been upon him.

It had been a grievous loss for all, especially so for Boromir who had been so fond of his loud kindly grandfather, a high and dignified lord nevertheless never above indulging his little grandson in a good bout of playful wrestling. He would roar like a slain dragon as Boromir sprung on his back and tried to topple him.

But that sorrow had come in its time and had always been woven into Denethor’s duty, just as his own passing would one day make Boromir steward.

But this - this was never meant to happen. Were women not supposed to outlive men?

Still, he had thought that he would be prepared.

She had been unwell, and not getting better, especially not after the second childbirth. He was not the sort of man to assume a positive outcome, and had thought himself braced for it.

He had expected anger, he had expected pain. But not this sort of hurt, like his whole middle had been ripped out.

It felt raw, and bitter, and unsurvivable.

But…

Time, somehow, marched on. Uncaring for his sorrow.

Everybody needed something of him. All of the time, relentlessly. From before first light and far into the night. Rulership of the imperilled realm was not a small job, and came without break or holiday.

While all he had the energy for was - nothing at all. Opening his eyes at the approach of dawn felt pointless, hauling his stiff body out of the cold lonely bed felt pointless. Everything was pointless, there was no joy left in anything, all was dust.

At first, he had wished for the relief of tears, were they not meant to cleanse the soul? But few would come, and when they did, they were acrid and scalding and felt like they would choke him to death. Which might have even been nice - but he had no right, he had to endure.

And then there were the boys.

The firstborn was easy. Now only a couple years away from adolescence, he did not need much in way of care anymore. He was a robust, boisterous boy, clearly set to grow into a strapping man’s man. His passions, even though not the same as Denethor’s own, were uncomplicated and easily catered to. Swords, hounds, horses. Had he been born into a lower house, he might have perhaps turned out even a bit brutish. But with proper training in statecraft and knighthood, he would develop into the sort of heir it takes little effort to be proud of - stalwart, unquestioning, solid.

Boromir was blessed with a straightforward toughness so well suited to enduring in this senseless, merciless world. He did not need worrying about.

The second-born was… a different story.

Still only a small child, he yearned to sit in Denethor’s lap, and curl against his chest, and be read to aloud before falling asleep.

He would draw pictures of imagined creatures for Denethor to look at; he would make up rambling whimsical stories that made no sense, yet looked heartbroken if Denethor did not sit and listen.

Denethor had no time for this, no heart for this.

Faramir had questions, so many questions. About death, and dreams, and the good magic. As if there was any good magic left.

There was in him the same distant touch of faerie as had been in her. A strange grace, a depth of spirit, a terrifying fragility. And every time he had to move the child aside, saying father is busy, Denethor felt as though the shame of failing her was poured over him all over again.

For Valar’s sake, the boy would weep when a small animal died - how was he meant to make it in the reality they had been dealt?

The child sought in him exactly the same sensitivity, the same unprotected, skinless gentleness that in the end had eaten her away - the gentleness that could only come from where the gaping hole now sat in Denethor’s own chest.

And so Denethor had conceded to come at bedtime. This seemed the most containable time.

The actual getting ready of them for bed had been offered to him at first. Her ladyship had been involved, very hands on, the nannies had subtly informed him. Perhaps his lordship would wish to do the same, at least some of it?

Denethor felt ill at ease in this realm of women’s hands and women’s voices. Everything here was warm and soft and nurturing, so foreign to how he felt in the world. He was not going to be putting on children’s nightshirts and helping comb their hair or telling them bedtime stories.

He sat in the room outside their bedchamber, reading some of his correspondence while all of that was getting finished.

Ironically, this was the one place in the entire city where his staff did not tense up around him - in fact, they were unbothered almost to the point of ignoring him, and so he could work with minimal disturbance. He was liked here no better than anywhere else, he understood this. He knew what he looked like to all of them, a lord who had lines at the corners of his mouth yet never smiled. One who did not bother to soften his hard eyes when speaking to anyone, whose very build suggested a disdain for any indulgence or comfort people might normally enjoy sharing.

But here they did not need to fear him, nor pay mind to the shadow that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Here was their domain and he but an uncertain visitor, and they knew it just as well as he did.

Faramir’s nanny walked past, bringing Faramir’s night drink of warm milk with honey and golden spice, as was the custom in Dol Amroth.

Denethor glanced up at her frame when she passed. She was strong of shoulder, and strong of hip, and made wide and durable across the middle. She moved with the slow, sure grace of a stout woman who had done heavy labour while balancing the weight of a little one on her hip.

To him all this was not so much unappealing as rather simply alien, the way he could appreciate well-built oxen or sturdy apple trees without feeling any desire for them. His Finduilas had been of a different cloth, elfine and exquisite. Sometimes at night he had been hardly able to feel her under his own lean weight.

But no doubt the nanny’s common-born husband was most proud to be in possession of such a well-fed wife, and would delight in the wealth of her flesh and health. Even through the many layers of her modest dress, her belly was visibly swollen with child.

“How many children are you blessed with?” Denethor asked. He did not like the saccharine turn of phrase standard for such questions, and perhaps it showed in his voice.

Nonetheless, she lowered her head, honoured by the lordly interest, and replied with a quiet smile. “Four, m’lord - hoping on five, come spring.”

He nodded to himself. How did the servants get to be hale and plentiful and breed like farm stock, while…

He should have known better than to take to wife a star-eyes maiden of the coast with Elf-blood in her lineage, however far removed. And she should have known better than to accept. What had she expected, that he would chase the Shadow away by the sheer will of his mind and turn the entire city into a garden with fountains?

The nanny slid behind the door, leaving him to his scrolls.

Work was his only comfort. At least it could be relied on to always be there.

He had overheard some years ago - in passing only, for such topics didn’t tend to get discussed in his presence - a group of lords speaking of family matters. Words to the effect that should one have the misfortune to find oneself a widower with young children, that was a time of sore testing for one’s honour. For gentle ladies would be endeared and full of pity, and offer comfort, and in the man’s sorrow some of that comfort might be too easily exploited.

When Denethor did indeed find himself a widower with young children, no ladies came forth bearing comfort, easily exploited or otherwise.

No one came.

Even his own sons seemed to have turned for consolation entirely to each other.

He heard the creaking sound of a mattress being bounced on. Evidently, Finduilas had permitted them to jump on beds.

How was a pirate, how was a pirate, how was a pirate to know! sang Faramir’s high, clear voice before it was joined by Boromir’s.

Denethor ground his teeth.

Eight years it had been since he first heard the insufferable tune.

Thorongil’s company had just returned to Minas Tirith following his spectacular victory over the Corsairs at Umbar. After the grand feast for the entire court, the Steward Ecthelion had followed with just a private dinner for the family. Unfathomably, the ‘family’ dinner also included Thorongil at the table. Boromir had been but two years old and already in bed, so she had joined them, too.

The victorious captain had brought from the campaign several bottles of Umbrian rum. They all had a drink of it, even Finduilas took a sip before Denethor protectively moved her cup away.

Then the elderly steward planted his elbow on the table. “Now, Thorongil, my boy,” he said with the gravity of the rum in his voice, then thought and pointed his finger at Thorongil, just to be clear who he was speaking to. “The important question is - while in Umbar, did you learn any pirate songs?”

Denethor raised his hand to his brow.

But Thorongil responded in kind, “Indeed, my lord.” Then he bowed his head respectfully in the direction of Denethor’s wife. “Although alas, most of them are not fit for ladies’ ears.”

Just what was needed in his father’s halls, everyone immediately imagining Thorongil dancing on a ship’s deck in his high boots, belting out obscenities.

Ecthelion put his cup down with a thud. “If there is one that is, it must be sung at once.”

Thorongil grew serious for a moment and said that there was, but it was rather controversial in its own way, he would not wish to offend. For some reason, he had glanced Denethor’s way as he said this, as though Denethor were some joyless wretch.

“Well, they are pirates, after all,” Ecthelion said, reasonably. “Have at it, lad!”

Denethor had heard Thorongil sing before and knew that unfortunately he had a most excellent voice for it. Clear and rich and spirited. A voice like that could rouse a bunch of fools to go and knock on the Black Gate itself should the owner feel so inclined.

Thorongil cleared his throat, and Denethor caught a glint in his grey eyes.

There once was a pirate,
A mighty great pirate,
The bane of the seven seas!
With beard of wire and eyes like fire,
He took what he would with ease.

He looted boats, he pillaged ports,
Broke every keep and lock,
But as he grew old
He feared losing hold
Of his wickedly gotten gold.

He set sail for the sun, and found -
An island, a mighty great island,
The queen of the seven seas!
With towers tall and gilded halls,
And armed all the way to the teeth.

But all of the men of that island
Had sailed away that day,
Their swords they took
Their spears they shook,
And left wide gates to the bay.

“What luck!” thought the pirate,
So, in he snuck, and deep he dug,
With shovel, pick, and axe -
And there he buried his treasure vast,
And turned his back at last.

But how was a pirate to know!
How was a pirate, how was a pirate,
How was a pirate to know?
The island itself, the island itself,
The island itself would go!

The gulls flew shrill,
His heart stood still,
The sea rose up to the sky -
And gone was the gold of a thousand raids!
And all he could do was cry.

O how was a pirate to know!
How was a pirate, how was a pirate,
How was a pirate to know?
Pride of his prow, the toil of his brow,
All his life’s work would go!

And all of the pirates have been
Salty forever since,
For no man can dive
Where the blue waves hide
Lost treasures from long ago.

Denethor sat struck speechless with outrage.

Not only making the greatest tragedy of their civilisation into a vulgar shanty - but having the gall to sing it in these noble halls!

But Ecthelion shook his head softly and said, “To only lose a bit of gold that day - must be nice, don’t you think?” Then he sighed wistfully and grinned. “Ah, to be but a silly old pirate!”

Ecthelion - and Thorongil with him - took even more rum. And then the unthinkable happened. He made Thorongil teach him the song.

And the old lord and his precious golden captain waved their drinks in unison as they bellowed, o but - how was a pirate, how was a pirate, how was a pirate to know!

Denethor felt himself go red in blotches.

But Finduilas clapped her delicate white hands along to the disgraceful spectacle, and laughed and laughed and laughed. Until a long lock of her hair came loose from her tightly wound braids, and hung in front of her flushed face. In a blatantly sensuous manner that certainly should have been for Denethor’s eyes alone.

But that night when Denethor came to her bed, she moved for him like she never had before - or ever would after.

She did nothing obscene or wanton, that was not their way, but there was as though a sparkle in her, an eagerness for his body he had not known she could have.

But he knew also, even in the joy of the moment itself, that in a very unspeakable, undeniable way, that eagerness was not altogether for him. As if he needed any more reason to love Thorongil any less.

And then Thorongil left.

And after that, the old steward died.

And now her. Slipped through his fingers like shimmering sea-water.

And the children up and down all the seven circles of Minas Tirith still sang the song.

He shut his eyes, allowed himself to lean back in his chair and tilt up his head so as to touch the cool stone of the wall behind him.

Would he ever stop feeling this tired, this utterly spent?

Then the Steward Denethor stood and headed into his sons’ room, to attend to his duty.