LOTR Fic: A Man Alone

[martasfic]

Title: A Man Alone
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor
Prompt: BMEM09 Day 4; fanfic100 #88, "School"
Word Count: 756
Rating: Teen for general despair
Summary: Denethor muses on how he became the man he is.

It was mad to worry about the traveling-times of kings at a time like this. Denethor knew that full well. And yet... and yet the mind could be an unruly servant, even a well-ordered mind, when the world seemed to cave in upon itself. The Pelennor was spotted with the tents of refugees, those last courageous souls who had at last fled Ithilien when Orodruin erupted into fire. The steward had long guessed (and so Denethor had long heard) that Sauron was not as thoroughly defeated as some might think, so Gondor was not wholly unprepared – but there was still much work to be done. Those families needed food, and lasting homes, and good work. They were the brave ones; they could not forever remain beggars.

But the question still pounded through his head, importune and obstinate but there nonetheless. Should Cirion travel north from Pelargir by royal barge and coach, and Eorl south from Helm's Deep on a mearh-horse, both taking the most direct route, will they meet within Gondor's present borders?

And out came the maps, the string and rulers, the stylus and the compass. He'd plot routes and measure distances, and scowl at his tutor when the man looked away. Denethor seldom scowled, least of all at Brethil. Indeed, he hero-worshiped the man, secretly longed to be like him. He even went so far, the year he was six, to take his mid-morning tea on his feet. That was how Brethil drank his, and so to Denethor's young mind it had seemed the best way in the whole world.

But the years had slipped by and Denethor grew less and less patient with the man. Why should I care whether they meet in Gondor or Rohan? he'd asked his mother exasperatedly once, as he paced across her sitting room. He'd been nine or ten at the time and rain had kept him from his sword-practice, yet Denethor had hardly thought that explained his irritation. The puzzle was trivial, yet Brethil seemed to have a thousand variations on it. What if Cirion rides from Minas Tirith, rather than taking a coach? What if Eorl brings his sons on less swift steeds? Or if the Rohirrim only travel by sure daylight, so as not chance their horses' health? 'Twas enough to make a better student than Denethor chuck his maps out the nearest window.

His mother's words had felt true, so much so that he had stopped pacing. A leader – be he king or steward – must cobble wisdom from learning. Not so for Brethil. As he thought back to that rain-soaked afternoon, Denethor marveled that he had not seen that truth sooner. Brethil had always known the orthodox answer to any question Denethor had put to him. Sometimes he gave it more enthusiastically, sometimes less, and for the first time Denethor had wondered whether he was always convinced. It did not matter, though, for Brethil was a tutor. He was tutor to the steward's heir, an honored position in its own way, but he was still only a tutor. It was his job to present the facts of every matter, to help Denethor learn – and it was Denethor's task to use that knowledge.

There was excellence of a sort in that, but it was not the sort that Denethor could simply copy. There was no one, no man in all Gondor, who could accurately serve as model. So Denethor became a great student of human nature, studying tutors and scholars intently. He watched them with keen eyes, judging them not by his inclinations as to what was good but by what truly was excellent in them, what let them fill their role well. And likewise with captains and lords, sons and lovers. He could not copy any one of them, for he was not them, must be different from all of them. Yet he could see the kernel of truth in their souls and forge his own model.

He stood on the city's keel, looking down at the distant tents on Pelennor. From here they were as small as ants, yet he knew they were real people. He could almost hear the women crying into their kerchiefs, see the worn-down look in the men's eyes. They had lost all they had, and Denethor knew they would not be the last.

Suddenly, he was glad he'd never found himself a man to model himself after. How could he be sure his self would last through the night, if he hadn't crafted it himself?

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Notes: If you know much philosophy you may recognize the way Denethor gets his concept of the ideal tutor, captain, etc. from Hume's aesthetics. "Borrowed" rather liberally from him, because I've just finished a paper on it and it's on my mind.

Title borrowed from a Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode.