Dead

Dead. Denethor’s thoughts kept coming back to that one word. Dead. Here lay his youngest son, whom he had always treated as second best. And now it was too late to say, “My son, I am proud of you.” 'My son.' His child, his blood. Now both his children were gone from this world, departed before him. It was not supposed to be that way. The end was coming; he had seen it. Gondor would fall and he would not wait to witness it. He owed it to his son, to once in his life be with him, to follow him in death.



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A/N: Many thanks to my beta, Silvae
This drabble was inspired, oddly enough, by this avvie: http://membres.lycos.fr/renfri/not-faramirs-dad.gif