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“I said no. You’re not going. Do not continue to argue with me.”
“You let Boromir go to Rohan when he was my age to learn about their battle tactics and strategy. Why can’t I go on my training manoeuvres?”
“Firstly, Boromir was going to Edoras, not Henneth Annun. Secondly, he was staying with someone he knew, and, more importantly, someone I knew, namely Théoden. Thirdly, Boromir was hadn’t been release from the Houses of Healing only an hour ago, after having spent two weeks there with severe pneumonia. Fourthly, Boromir is not the child who has been told repeatedly to get back to bed. That child is standing in front of me, with what will soon be a rather sore backside, if he doesn’t do as he was told immediately.”
A pair of grey blue eyes stared stubbornly up at his father. After waiting a second, Denethor took a step towards his younger son, who promptly bolted to the other side of his room, and dived under the covers. Denethor sat by his side, gently stroking his hair, and singing an old Dol Amrothi lullaby that Finduilas had taught him when Boromir was only a tiny baby, one that had made Thorongil go rather white, before leaving the room. By the second stanza, Denethor’s youngest, his baby, and the best reminder of Finduilas that he had, was fast asleep. Denethor smiled gently down at his child, promising him silently that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father, or Thorongil’s for that matter, had. That this child would always know his father loved him, even when he didn’t agree with the choices he made in life.