Humor – Faramir, Boromir, Denethor – G
Summary: After a confusing conversation with Boromir, Denethor finds he has more in common with Faramir than he imagined. A response to A'mael Taren's February Challenge: "Portray the relationship of Faramir and Denethor in a positive light."
Author's Note: Apologies; I thought it was funny but I have a weird mind!
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Fairdinkum Faramir
Denethor sighed and turned away from his son. His thoughts were ever thus when he contemplated the gulf between himself and the boy.
It was as if they spoke a different language. As if they came from a different country.
He had tried to instill his values, his morals, and his own sense of duty into the boy. Whenever he looked at this young man before him he tasted the bitterness of defeat and disappointment. It was difficult to believe this was a product of his loins, his own flesh and blood. He was almost a stranger.
His son was poring over the map intently. His broad mouth pursed and his gray eyes fixed. It was a handsome face Denethor had to acknowledge, made the more pronounced by the large nose that formed the central feature. Denethor could see the family resemblance. He could see himself in this boy. So why was there such a gulf between them?
His son's hair fell into his eyes and the son brushed it away impatiently.
Finally the young man lifted his head. "There's nowt we can do," he said hopelessly.
Denethor closed his eyes and bit back another sigh. He looked away from the map, away from the table, and away from his son. He could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. Such pain had become all too frequent over the past months. It grew from the stress of the situation he found himself in. Being Steward to a City constantly under attack and hovering at the edge of the void of despair was not easy. But a major part of it was the traumatic relationship with his son.
Today their seeming inability to communicate with each other was even heavier to bear than normal. It was tiring, having to constantly concentrate on what was being said to ensure that the true message behind the words was getting through. Never a patient man Denethor's frustration had built steadily and he knew it would explode before long.
He needed to escape from this audience and soon. Surely there was some relief to be found somewhere in his City?
Taking a long breath, he forced back his annoyance deep into his mind. He turned to regard his son once more.
"What?" he asked finally, dreading the reply.
Boromir looked up. His voice sounded frustrated as he replied. "I said there's nowt we can do. By 'eck though I'd thump 'um if I got chance like."
Denethor rolled his eyes. Not for the first time that day the thought hit him, 'What is he talking about?'
"Mordor is close, it is true," he said finally. "But we will not give up what we have here so easily. The life of Minas Tirith has endured for a thousand years. I will not be the one to lose it all."
He sat down on to the throne and put his head in his hands. It had ever been so. Boromir although willing and able to do the things his father asked him, had developed a most peculiar way of expressing himself over the years. Denethor had never heard any one else in the White City talk in quite the same way as his eldest son did.
It was almost as if the boy had come from a world away from the one that Denethor inhabited. How could he be expected to communicate with and love his son if he didn't understand the words he used?
Boromir had turned to regard him. He had obviously just said something, and was waiting for a reaction. It was apparent that he was only just holding in his own temper and frustration.
Denethor couldn't even blame the boy's long dead mother for, although she had come from the coast and ever sought to return, she had at least spoken the same language as the Steward.
"What?" Denethor repeated, as his headache got stronger.
Boromir snorted. "We should get 'em. Lay a trap, like, weer t'watter runs oer t'weer. Dust tha knaw?"
Denethor opened his mouth to respond when suddenly the massive doors to the hall banged open and in rushed Denethor's other son.
"G'day dad! How's it hanging? Just been down the grogg shop to get some tinnies of the amber nectar and now I'm gonna put the snags on the barby, mate!" He beamed.
Denethor's heart surged with pride and joy. All thanks to the light brought to his life by his second son. Here was a boy after his own heart. Here was a son who spoke his language.
He stood up in a fluid motion belying the despair he had been feeling. The Steward moved towards Faramir and enveloped him in a huge bear hug.
"Ripper dad!" Faramir exclaimed. "Strewth but it's hot out there, mate!"
"Fair dinkum son! You know how I love a good barbeque," Denethor responded. He shook his head and muttered, "By 'eck indeed!"
Clairon
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Summary: After a confusing conversation with Boromir, Denethor finds he has more in common with Faramir than he imagined. A response to A'mael Taren's February Challenge: "Portray the relationship of Faramir and Denethor in a positive light."
Author's Note: Apologies; I thought it was funny but I have a weird mind!
*************************************
Fairdinkum Faramir
Denethor sighed and turned away from his son. His thoughts were ever thus when he contemplated the gulf between himself and the boy.
It was as if they spoke a different language. As if they came from a different country.
He had tried to instill his values, his morals, and his own sense of duty into the boy. Whenever he looked at this young man before him he tasted the bitterness of defeat and disappointment. It was difficult to believe this was a product of his loins, his own flesh and blood. He was almost a stranger.
His son was poring over the map intently. His broad mouth pursed and his gray eyes fixed. It was a handsome face Denethor had to acknowledge, made the more pronounced by the large nose that formed the central feature. Denethor could see the family resemblance. He could see himself in this boy. So why was there such a gulf between them?
His son's hair fell into his eyes and the son brushed it away impatiently.
Finally the young man lifted his head. "There's nowt we can do," he said hopelessly.
Denethor closed his eyes and bit back another sigh. He looked away from the map, away from the table, and away from his son. He could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. Such pain had become all too frequent over the past months. It grew from the stress of the situation he found himself in. Being Steward to a City constantly under attack and hovering at the edge of the void of despair was not easy. But a major part of it was the traumatic relationship with his son.
Today their seeming inability to communicate with each other was even heavier to bear than normal. It was tiring, having to constantly concentrate on what was being said to ensure that the true message behind the words was getting through. Never a patient man Denethor's frustration had built steadily and he knew it would explode before long.
He needed to escape from this audience and soon. Surely there was some relief to be found somewhere in his City?
Taking a long breath, he forced back his annoyance deep into his mind. He turned to regard his son once more.
"What?" he asked finally, dreading the reply.
Boromir looked up. His voice sounded frustrated as he replied. "I said there's nowt we can do. By 'eck though I'd thump 'um if I got chance like."
Denethor rolled his eyes. Not for the first time that day the thought hit him, 'What is he talking about?'
"Mordor is close, it is true," he said finally. "But we will not give up what we have here so easily. The life of Minas Tirith has endured for a thousand years. I will not be the one to lose it all."
He sat down on to the throne and put his head in his hands. It had ever been so. Boromir although willing and able to do the things his father asked him, had developed a most peculiar way of expressing himself over the years. Denethor had never heard any one else in the White City talk in quite the same way as his eldest son did.
It was almost as if the boy had come from a world away from the one that Denethor inhabited. How could he be expected to communicate with and love his son if he didn't understand the words he used?
Boromir had turned to regard him. He had obviously just said something, and was waiting for a reaction. It was apparent that he was only just holding in his own temper and frustration.
Denethor couldn't even blame the boy's long dead mother for, although she had come from the coast and ever sought to return, she had at least spoken the same language as the Steward.
"What?" Denethor repeated, as his headache got stronger.
Boromir snorted. "We should get 'em. Lay a trap, like, weer t'watter runs oer t'weer. Dust tha knaw?"
Denethor opened his mouth to respond when suddenly the massive doors to the hall banged open and in rushed Denethor's other son.
"G'day dad! How's it hanging? Just been down the grogg shop to get some tinnies of the amber nectar and now I'm gonna put the snags on the barby, mate!" He beamed.
Denethor's heart surged with pride and joy. All thanks to the light brought to his life by his second son. Here was a boy after his own heart. Here was a son who spoke his language.
He stood up in a fluid motion belying the despair he had been feeling. The Steward moved towards Faramir and enveloped him in a huge bear hug.
"Ripper dad!" Faramir exclaimed. "Strewth but it's hot out there, mate!"
"Fair dinkum son! You know how I love a good barbeque," Denethor responded. He shook his head and muttered, "By 'eck indeed!"
Clairon
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