Characters: Denethor, Faramir, Boromir, OFC
Source: FotR, and Post-Ring War
Disclaimer: Tolkien's story, Kortirion merely scribbles in the margins.
He picked up the glass; it remained preternaturally cold beneath his fingers, as if its rounded surface sucked warmth from his palms. Denethor steeled himself before gazing into the globe, knowing he must toil to master what it would show.
He was the Steward, it was his duty… but sometimes he felt coerced into watching the world, not as it was, but as it could be – which was true? The inevitable downfall and destruction of all he held dear? Or the moments when heroes might arise and snatch a victory?
Today, he saw Anduin… a grey boat… And he wept.
He picked up a glass, broken to shards when it fell from his numbed fingers. Faramir shook his head to clear the vision. It was the wine, too rich for nights on duty… but Henneth Annun felt safe, a rare place of warmth were soldiers could relax while others maintained the watch.
Should have used a horn beaker, not indulged in glassware… But as he ruefully cleared the shatterings, moonlight caught a reflection, recreating the vision of clear waters lapping over his brother’s face…
At dawn he felt drawn to the river… and a grey boat borne on sparkling waters.
She picked up a glass… hesitated, then picked up another… maybe presumptuous, but he might be there... He’d remember the anniversary.
Melleth made her way quietly through Minas Tirith’s circles. The re-building was proceeding well; where once houses stood wrecked by ballista and fire, new buildings rose, filling the gaps. Viewed from the Pellenor, the city’s grim, gap-toothed visage was returning to wreathed stone smiles.
In the secret Lady’s Garden, bright moonlight made her lantern un-necessary; she saw him. Hunched under the elven cloak, almost invisible… he remembered. She sat, poured wine, handed him a glass…
“To Boromir,” she whispered.