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His father had not moved in two days, his life drew inexorably towards its close. His ageing had come on swiftly, even by the standards of their kind. Within a decade he had gone from haleness to a withered, pitiable thing. Soon it would all be at an end.
He waited by his father, vainly. He looked down at Ecthelion, his shrunken form picked out in the first rays of the sun spilling through the eastern window. The sharp bones of his face all the more clear against his sunken cheeks and eyes. How frail and weak he looked. Once a great lord of Men, reduced to this.
He knew Ecthelion was unlikely to speak again, his spirit spilling slowly free of his failing body. Passing beyond, to whatever fate awaited Men beyond the walls of the world. What judgement would await him there?
Worse than vain, it was foolish. Denethor had done much in the previous years to sure up his position, and had been acting as regent for his father. Bit by bit, as Ecthelion’s health failed he took up more of his duties. When the time came power would be passed smoothly, and none would doubt who their new lord would be. Still, once word got out of Ecthelion’s state there would be a void. A moment of opportunity for any bold enough to take it, yet instead of securing power he sat here. Waiting.
His father had not moved in two days, and Denethor had not slept in three. Not since his Ecthelion collapsed and been moved to his deathbed. By his side Denethor remained.
Why, he wondered. Did he wish to comfort Ecthelion in his dying hours? His sisters would have been far better suited for that, but they had come and gone. They had made their peace.
Did he really think he could make good with his father now? Undo all of the past thirty years as he lay dying? What madness. It was far too late for that.
He smiled ruefully to himself. His father had lived in fear of him for most of his rule. A false fear, Denethor had never plotter harm against his Lord Father, but admittedly not an absurd one.
Ecthelion probably saw him as the shadow of death, leering over his body, waiting for him to die so he can finally seize power. Already clad in black, so eager to mourn. The white of the Warden had never been his colour. Soon he would never have to wear it ever again.
He could not remember a time without strife with his father. Ecthelion had feared, first when Denethor could not control his powers, and more still when he had mastered them. How he had hated his father then! Why are you not glad? The blood of Númenor runs true in my veins! No foe shall have mastery over me!
Then the world had changed. He had become a man, and the Enemy had returned. Shortly after Lord Turgon had died. Ecthelion was Lord of Gondor, and his heart was filled with doubt. Denethor had seen this, and thought he understood.
He had made an offer. In hindsight a terrible, terrible offer. One made in the full confidence of his youth, and coming to the mastery of his powers. He knew then his destiny, it would be he who led Gondor during the great crisis. Why wait? Why should Ecthelion suffer the doubt of rule in such circumstances?
Of old the Húrinionath had been headed not by their most senior but by their most able. Even among the line of Kings, Rómendacil II had taken the Helm long before the deaths of his father and uncle.
Ecthelion had not seen it so. From then he had seen Denethor as the greatest threat to his rule, greater perhaps than Gorthaur himself. No wonder then that he had been so quick to take to that Northern captain. Thorongil.
At first Denethor had feared some plot, some shape changing servant of their foe had taken his form. He soon realised that the man was indeed that, flesh and blood even as he was. A true Dúnedain. That feeling of falseness however never left.
Thorongil and Denethor rarely disagreed, yet Ecthelion was ever more eager to give his ear to Thorongil.
Then he had left, not in defeat but victory. Denethor had marvelled, yet Ecthelion was downcast. His health had already begun to fail him and robbed of Thorongil he was forced ever more to turn to Denethor. Gondor was ordered to his will, and he had a hand in all. Yet Ecthelion seemed ever more rueful. At times opposing Denethor out of what seemed little more than spite, at times holding his tongue as if he feared some great retribution from his heir.
Denethor thought little of it at first, but as time drew on he knew any chance of reconciliation was slipping away. There was no turning aside now. Gondor had need of him, he would not set aside wisdom to appease his father. In these days each hour is more desperate than the last.
And yet, he squandered these vital ones. He cursed himself, but he could not bring himself to stand and leave. He gazed out of the window, the eastern horizon clouded in morning mist. Their foe would not be spending this time so frivolously.
Just as he had steeled his heart to leave Ecthelion hacked and heaved a great sigh. His eyes flicked open and he looked towards Denethor. “Father!” Cried Denethor. “I am here Lord.” He knelt at his father’s side and took his frail hand between his own. Their eyes met. Ecthelion tried to speak.
“Thorongil.” His choked out faintly. His eyes closed again and he stilled.
Before the next hour was rung he had departed. Denethor did not weep. Leaving he came upon a servant. “Lord Ecthelion is dead. Send for the embalmers.” He said, his voice flat. The servant swallowed nervously and bowed. “Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord Steward of Gondor.”