Apologize

A/N: This is what happens if I am left at home with a computer. :P Yeah, it's summer break and I get bored easily...

So anyway. I don't own any of this but the plot and am making zero profit.

"You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."

Denethor, Steward of Gondor, paused in the act of bringing his goblet to his lips. His eyes fixed on a point halfway down the empty table as he answered his younger – now only – son in a whisper. "Yes. I wish that." Sorrow swept over Faramir's face. "Since you were robbed of Boromir, I shall do what I can in his stead," he said, barely keeping the pain from his trembling voice. He bowed to his father, and walked to the door. Denethor pretended not to notice the tears glistening in his eyes.

Halfway there, he paused, and turned back to the table. "When I return, think better of me, Father." Then he turned away, striding purposefully to the door. "That shall depend on the manner of your return," Denethor muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table. Faramir's steps faltered briefly, but he pretended not to have heard his father's words.

Once Faramir had left the room, Denethor turned to the halfling who had sworn his service to the Steward. "Can you sing?" he asked lightly. Peregrin blinked, startled. "Yes," he answered, obviously confused. "All hobbits can. But we have no songs for great halls...or evil times." He risked a glance at Denethor then.

"And why should your songs not be fit for my halls?" the man asked, without waiting for an answer. "Come, sing me a song." The halfling took a deep breath, and began to sing, haltingly at first, then growing in strength.

Home is behind, the world ahead
And there are many paths to tread...

A small, distracted part of Denethor's mind noted that Peregrin had a beautiful voice. But the greater part of the man's mind was trying to deny that he had just sent his son to his death with his harsh words. Osgiliath is overrun, my lord, Faramir had said. All the people of Gondor knew the strength of the orcs of the Shadow.

Why could I not see?

Mist and shadow, cloud and shade,
All shall fade...all shall fade.

The halfling began to weep silently as he finished the song. "You may go to your rooms, Peregrin Took," Denethor said, managing to keep his voice gentle. Peregrin executed a stiff bow, then turned and left quietly. Denethor's attention, however, was no longer on the halfling.

Boromir – or at least, Boromir's ghost – was walking towards Denethor. The smile normally gracing his proud features was gone, replaced by disapproval. Father, he said, curtly. He bowed slightly, but his eyes remained cold and distant. Boromir, why... Denethor couldn't finish his question, but his son knew what he was asking.

Why must you be so hard on Faramir? He is your son as well. Your only son, now. He still mourns for me. You know you have never loved him as you should, yet you can never find a kind word for him. Why?

Denethor winced at Boromir's accusations, but, in his heart, he knew they were true. Your brother is not half the soldier he could be. He needs to do better. That, at least, was true enough. Boromir frowned. Faramir needs to do better? he asked, disbelief warring with outrage in his tone. Cautiously, Denethor dipped his head once in acknowledgement.

Boromir's temper flared up. Faramir does not need to do better! He is a greater soldier and a greater man than I ever could have been! I, whom you loved best, who was invincible in your belief! Denethor was surprised by the vehemence of his defense. Boromir's next words, however, sent a chill through his body.

I remember, even if you do not, what happened to Faramir the first and last time he brought word of defeat to you.

Denethor froze, the cluster of grapes in his hand falling from his numb fingers. For he did remember, though he tried to forget. The memory rose to the surface of his mind.

My lord, we have lost the easternmost fortress of Ithilien.

He remembered how a sudden rage had ignited within him at Faramir's words. Faramir had looked up just as Denethor's hand struck his cheek. He remembered how Faramir had screamed, pleading for his father to stop. Blinded by rage, Denethor had barely noticed. He remembered how Faramir had lain limp and silent – defeated – at the end, as Denethor had approached him again.

Then Boromir had burst into the room, sword drawn, his forest-green eyes filled with a fury more intense than Denethor had ever – or since – seen. He had leapt straight for his father, knocking him to the ground. Get away from him, he had shrieked, almost hysterically. Denethor had been too shocked by the sudden change in his son to stop him as he bound his father's wrists together behind his back with a scrap piece of rope.

Boromir had taken Faramir gently into his arms, shuddering as Faramir flinched away from him at first. He had looked back at his father before he left the room, the fury still smoldering in his eyes, but now tucked behind his concern for his brother. Free yourself, he had hissed. I will make sure no one else does it for you. He had abruptly turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Denethor on the floor. As the Steward worked to free his hands, he had slowly realized what he had done.

I did not know what I was doing. It was the influence of the Shadow that had caused my blind rage.

I know, Father. But have you noticed? Faramir still carries a scar on the right side of his face where your signet ring ripped his cheek open. Everyone who doesn't know the truth thinks it was from an accident that occurred while he was hunting.

Denethor winced.

Boromir sighed, the distance returning to his eyes. Forgive me, my lord. I should not have spoken that way.

The Steward cringed at the formal flatness of Boromir's words. No, Boromir, it is I who was wrong. You were right about Faramir. You always were.

A small smile turned up the corners of Boromir's mouth. Good. I'm glad you realized it. He drifted closer to Denethor. You will need that strength to endure this day. His smile grew until it was as bright and full of life as Denethor remembered it. Then Boromir disappeared, leaving Denethor alone with an empty room and his memories.

There was a sudden commotion outside, and Denethor rose to see what had happened. He gasped when several men laid down a stretcher with a body in it. "Faramir!" He rushed out of the building. "No...Tell me not that my son is dead..." One of the guards of the Citadel murmured, "None survived, my lord." The halfling rushed forward, kneeling by Faramir's body. "He is alive, my lord!" he cried, but no one heeded him.

And so Denethor mourned for his lost sons as the armies of the Shadow began to burn the White City.

A/N: Denethor is not one of my favorite characters, but this idea just popped into my head one day and wouldn't leave me alone. And yes, Denethor is beginning to go crazy.

Review? Please? Pretty please with sprinkles on top? Any feedback welcome!