To be fair, as a ruler, Denethor did quite a good job. The affairs of Gondor, great and small alike, were managed in perfect order, with hardly any mistakes. And his attitude, except toward his two sons, was generally just and impartial.
His reputation in Gondor wasn't bad at all. In terms of willpower, he was remarkably strong, like steel itself, so much so that he could even resist the temptations of Sauron.
That was no small feat. But after all, a man is made of flesh and blood, not true steel. Given enough time, cracks are bound to appear. And when that happens, correction becomes necessary.
---
Inside a bedchamber somewhere in Minas Tirith, Denethor stood before Faramir's bed, a sour expression on his aged face, holding a bottle of milk. This was Garrett's order, to have him wake his younger son himself.
With a sigh, he obediently fed the milk to Faramir.
A moment later, Faramir's eyes opened. The first thing he saw was his father's displeased old face.
"Father... was it you who woke me?"
"What's that got to do with me?"
Denethor hid the empty bottle behind his back and said coldly, "If you're going to thank someone, thank that good teacher of yours whom you revere so much, Garrett, the one you've barely even met a few times. Don't just thank the first person you see upon waking, like some foolish animal that mistakes the first thing it sees for its mother."
Faramir listened quietly, saying nothing for a long moment. Then he suddenly smiled. Denethor felt distinctly uncomfortable.
"If you're awake, then get up already. Your brother's been worried about you. Go show him that you're well."
"Yes, Father. Thank you."
Denethor was silent for a moment. He slowly lowered his head, stood by the door for a little while, then turned and left. He said nothing, and did not look back.
---
A little later, outside the chamber.
After so long, Boromir finally saw Faramir again. After more than a year apart, the two brothers were reunited at Minas Tirith. They embraced at once, smiling broadly. Their bond spoke for itself.
After chatting for a while, he suddenly said, "I plan to take part in the coming assault on the Black Gate. What do you think?"
Having only just awakened, Faramir knew nothing of this, not even of Gondor's recent victory. He asked for details. Only then did he learn that Garrett had returned to the North and was now preparing to march on Mordor.
Yes, the Battle of the Pelennor Fields had indeed ended in Gondor's victory, but that didn't mean they now held the advantage. Mordor could raise another vast army at any moment. Next time, they might not be so lucky.
"We need to strike at the root of the problem, Faramir. You've seen them, haven't you, the two Hobbits?"
Boromir continued, "I'll march with the prophesied King, Aragorn, to the Black Gate, to aid Garrett. We can't give Mordor time to recover. We can't afford another war like this. This was the decision of Gandalf, Aragorn, and our father together."
"Then let me go too," Faramir said seriously.
"Then put on your armor, brother," Boromir said, smiling. "Let us fight side by side."
---
"Roooar!"
Outside Dale.
Orange-red flames pierced through the clouds. Countless enemies fled in panic, their fighting spirit shattered.
On the walls, several aged Dwarves looked on in awe.
"Centuries ago, the fire-drake Smaug seized our home... and now, another dragon guards it for us."
"The world is always like this. Things once thought impossible, miracles once unimagined, can all come to pass today. What do you think, Thorin?"
"Me?"
Thorin, who had been addressed, stared intently at the battlefield, his expression unreadable.
By now, his hair and beard had turned completely white, and his body no longer possessed the strength it once did.
Yet many days earlier, upon hearing that enemies were approaching, he had still donned his armor, gripped his sword, and charged out, breathing heavily.
Such was the stubborn pride of the Dwarves, and their oath.
From the day the journey to the Lonely Mountain ended, the returned King Under the Mountain had sworn never again would he hide behind his kin or his people.
"I've got nothing different to say," Thorin murmured.
Watching the enemy scatter and flee before the dragon's fiery breath, he let out a sigh of relief.
Had Weymir not arrived, this battle might have dragged on for quite some time before it reached its conclusion. And Weymir, after lending his aid here, had flown off toward Rhovanion at once. Someone, it seemed, was calling to him.
What Thorin did not know was that, while he pondered the ceaseless wars of late, the Black Gate had already begun to creak open.
Creak.
The immense black gates of metal, so tall that one could not see their tops, slowly parted just enough to form a narrow gap.
Out rode a tall man upon a terrifying black horse, who spoke, "My lord, the great Sauron, bids you all welcome."
Even as he said this, the emissary's gaze wavered before the sight of the army arrayed against him. For standing opposite him were seventy thousand warriors, fifty thousand from the Free Cities and twenty thousand combined from Gondor and Rohan, all seasoned fighters.
They stretched out in ranks far into the distance before the Black Gate. Had more not been needed to guard their homelands, they could have mustered even greater numbers. And their leadership was nothing short of magnificent.
At their head, standing foremost before the army, was the Lord of the North, a man with so many titles it would take one's breath away just to list them all, Garrett, the most powerful figure to arise in Middle-earth in centuries, a living legend. Beside him stood Aragorn, the prophesied king, Gandalf the White, Saruman, tagging along out of interest, the Hobbits Pippin and Merry, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Boromir and Faramir, Gondor's commanders, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the Dúnedain Rangers, including Halbarad, Legolas, the Woodland Elf prince, Gimli, son of Glóin, of the House of Durin, King Théoden of Rohan and his son Théodred, and numerous marshals of Rohan besides.
There were so many leaders, one could not take them all in at a glance.
Within the host, Gandalf recognized the solitary figure standing before the Black Gate.
"That is the Mouth of Sauron, the bearer of his master's will. Perhaps we should hear what he has to say."
Even bolstered by Sauron's power, the Mouth of Sauron felt far from confident. The sight before him brought to mind the Last Alliance of Men and Elves at the end of the previous age, though back then, their numbers had been even greater.
So too had Mordor's. But that was the past. The world of today could not be compared to the world of then.
Drawing a deep breath, the Mouth of Sauron let his gaze pass over Aragorn and the other leaders, before fixing it upon Garrett at the forefront.
"It is a pleasure to meet you again."
Indeed, it was the same emissary who, years ago, had traveled to the Southlands to parley with Garrett during the founding of his city.
Garrett replied coolly, "Speak quickly, or have your skulking master come out and say it himself. If he has nothing else to say, he can stay in that tower of his and wait quietly for death."
At these words, the Mouth of Sauron showed no visible reaction. He only lowered his tone further and said, "There is no need for hostility. I come bearing a message from my master. Mordor, along with the powers of the East and South, are willing to acknowledge you as Lord of Middle-earth, and to serve under your command. What say you?"
The world itself, offered within arm's reach.