Werelemur's Lair

This fic is rated: PG for Violence
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, others
Summary: Five things that never happened to Denethor.
Warnings: character death, violence, a few minor OFCs, au, angst
Word Count: 500
Feedback: yes, please! Concrit welcomed.
Distribution: archiving, linking or remixing ok, just credit me and drop me a line!
Cross-Posted were_lemur, 5_nevers, sons_of_gondor, steward_fics
My FanFic Masterlist
Disclaimer: Tolkien’s. Just borrowing. Please don’t sue!

Denethor paced outside of the room, trying not to flinch when Finduilas cried out. He had been sent of the room when her labor had begun, and not even his rank would convince the midwife to let him stay.

"You'll only be in the way, Milord, even if you don't faint."

Finduilas wailed once more, and then Denethor heard a baby's first cries. By the volume, he was a very healthy little boy.

After what seemed like hours, the midwife opened the door. Finduilas gave him an exhausted smile. "Milord," the midwife said, handling him a swaddled bundle, "Your daughter."

* * *

In the Houses of Healing, Finduilas let out her last breath in a sigh. Denethor stared down at the still body in his arms. He could not imagine life without her.

But sooner or later, he would have to. Their marriage had been without issue; after a decent interval, he would have to choose another wife, take her to his bed, and produce an heir.

But he had paid careful attention to the herbs that the healers used, and it was easy enough to manufacture a poison. He lay down, held Finduilas's cooling body close, and went to sleep.

* * *

Minas Tirith lay under siege, Faramir lay near death, and all hope was gone.

Denethor knew that he would be dead by the time the sun set. He doubted that Minas Tirith would still be standing by the time it rose tomorrow morning. The healers would see that Faramir did not to suffer when they were overrun.

Now, in plate that had not seen use in a decade, he led the charge.

He had barely joined the fray, when an orcish spear spitted his horse. Momentum carried him forward.

By the time the orcs were finished, there was nothing left.

* * *

Denethor had never imagined that victory could taste as bitter as defeat.

Thorongil -- Aragorn -- Elessar, he styled himself now, had ridden to the rescue. Saved Gondor. Saved Faramir. But anger was more comfortable than gratitude, so he wrapped himself in it like a heavy cloak.

But there was no denying who the man was. What he was. The Northern Heir, the rightful King, and Denethor was not willing to lead Gondor into a civil war. The upstart wasn't worth it.

So he gritted his teeth, and knelt before his King. Placed his hands between Elessar's, and swore fealty.

* * *

"Grandda! Come quick!"

It only took a moment to decide. Denethor set aside the report he had been reading and followed his grandson through the halls. They reached the nursery just in time to see the boy's younger sister take a few wobbling steps across the nursery before she fell down, giggling.

"I need to show Grandma Fin!" the boy declared.

Denethor watched him go.

Someday, he knew, the boy would face battle. There were portents; rumblings from the South. He suspected Boromir's rule would be a difficult one.

But for now, Boromir's son deserved a chance to be a child.